Out of my Element
by That Kid With the Long Coat
Summary: Mycroft is just a young man trying to live up to his father's expectations. Greg is a kid out of his element in need of a friend. What happens when one of them wants to be lab partners? Better yet, what happens when little Sherlock finds out about his brother's relationship and starts feeling something for John Watson? And what of Irene and Molly? Rated for later content. Mystrade.
1. The Everyday Life of Mycroft Holmes

_A/N: Hey! So, unfortunately for you (or maybe luckily), this story is currently being revamped because I'm not happy with it! Succeeding chapters will most likely either be picked apart a little bit, or torn to shreds and completely rewritten. Thanks for putting up with me! Or not. Whichever._

_02-07-13 (dd/mm/yy): Don't worry, everything's the same here._

* * *

"_Sherlock_! How many times have I told you to _stay away_ from the road!"

"Sod off you pompous **clot**!"

"Excuse me!"

"Oh, you're stupid _and_ deaf now, ah?"

Sherlock grinned back at him, eyes bright and challenging. His breath came out in small clouds ahead of him, and his nose was slowly turning a deep red along with his cheeks. The small boy curled his fingers in his gloves, obviously trying to keep them warm despite the biting air.

"_Sherlock_."

"_Myc'oft_."

Mycroft tried not to crack a smile - no matter how small - at that. Seven years old, and his little brother _still_ couldn't say his name quite right. Normally, the little blighter's pronunciation was flawless. He was a true master of the English language - and a fair amount of others. He could copy anyone's speech, any innotations one could possibly make -_especially_ his big brother's - but this one simple name caught him every time, _despite_ knowing at least four languages, one of which was Arabic. Mycroft often wondered if Sherlock had a genuine problem, or if he just didn't care enough to correct himself. Most likely the latter.

"Where are you going?"

"Away from you, you bloody **git**."

Where Sherlock got that mouth, he'll never know.

"Do you kiss Mum with that mouth of yours?"

"I'm not the one who still kisses my mummy goodnight _every_ night!" the seven-year-old retaliated, voice teasing.

"My God, do you have to shout it to the whole world?" Mycroft cringed and glanced cautiously up and down the street. No one was in sight. "It's not like she gives me a choice! The only reason she doesn't make _you_ is because you pitch a fit and flail about like you're having a seizure!"

"Maybe I am. Girls have cooties."

"Mum isn't a girl."

"She has the proper anatomy," Sherlock countered, and with that he stalked off down the street, hands in his pockets, head held high. In an odd sense, despite the slightly paler skin and the dark brown curls, he looked strikingly like a smaller version of Mycroft. "I'll be home before dinner, Myc'oft." Nearly the same attitude as well. Brilliant. Absolutely _brilliant_.

After standing outside the front door in nothing but a thin pair of trousers and a plain button-down for ten more minutes, Mycroft decided that it was time to go inside, grab something to eat, and perhaps go to the library. He was in dire need of a new leisure book, and all the reading material they happened to own had been meticulously picked apart cover to cover more times than he could count.

* * *

It was slowly crawling towards 13:00 when Mycroft finally left, brushing bagel crumbs off of his shirt before buttoning his coat and wrapping his blue striped scarf around his throat. It was a relatively quiet Saturday afternoon, and Mycroft found himself alone on the streets. A few lonesome cars wooshed by, but not much else. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets, gently fondling his wallet. It's worn, the leather soft and slightly fuzzy. It used to be his father's before the man decided that it was too plain for his position, and his tastes. At practically the top of the British government, Mr Holmes had high hopes that his genius sons would follow in his footsteps. So far, only Mycroft seemed willing. Sherlock, on the other hand, was not.

_"Leave the politics to those with high ambitions and low IQs,"_ the curly-haired boy was fond of saying. _"Like Myc'oft."_

Mycroft smiled slightly and pushed his wind-blown red hair from his eyes. He made a right, then walked two more blocks before he finally arrived at the library.

It's neither big nor small. Not fancy nor plain. The beloved library is in that blissful middle ground where everything is perfect and right and everything that a library should be. There's a quaint little placard next to the glass doors that says "Public Library". Mycroft's smile widened as he pulled open the door and went inside.

It's the smell, mainly, that sends him into a state of tranquility. All those books in one place, the scent of new and aging paper, the aroma of fraying fabric and ancient leather-bound covers, the fragrance of the ink, both printed and handwritten. There's not many that understand them like Mycroft does as he trailed his fingers across their spines, making them whisper and shush, because this _is_ a library after all, and you're supposed to remain quiet no matter who you are.

As he combed over the fiction section, hunting for a good mystery novel - one _more_ than twenty chapters and nine-hundred pages this time - he heard a small commotion in the aisle next to him. Peeking through the gaps in the books, he spied a shorter boy, roughly his age, high on his toes, straining for something just out of his reach.

"_Aw, come on you bloody_-" he mumbled as he just misses it. "_I have a report due Monday and I haven't even started it yet_..."

Mycroft thought he recognised the boy. He had unruly brown hair that stood up at all angles, and a tan that could only come from being outdoors all summer. He was clothed in a thin-looking dark blue jacket and jeans that looked like they had seen both world wars. The red-head bit his lip - he knew this. He knew _everyone_. Why didn't he know _him_, damn it! He nibbled irritably until he tasted copper on his tongue.

"_Lestrade_!" Both Mycroft and the boy looked in the direction of the voice - the owner of which was quickly shushed by a majority of the inhabitants of the library - to see a gaggle of other boys, varying from shorter than this Lestrade, he can only assume, to taller than Mycroft.

_Of course_. Lestrade. Just started sixth form because his father wanted him to go to Oxford. He was one of the poorer students that attended the customarily rich school, had no siblings, but several cousins, and regularly played rugby after school. He was one of the older ones in the form, since his birthday was the second of September, and it was rumoured that he drank and smoked.

"-_I nearly creamed by bloomin' pants_!" one of the boys almost-shouts, seemingly in excitement.

The loud exclaimation prompted Mycroft to abruptly cease his thoughts and roll his eyes. A sharp sigh escaped his lips.

Dark brown eyes suddenly snapped up, connecting with blue ones through the bookshelf for an instant. As soon as the other boy blinked, Mycroft was nowhere in sight.

* * *

"Sherlock, wash you're hands."

"Yes _mum_."

Mycroft let out his second annoyed sigh of the night, picking up Sherlock's abandoned coat, shoes, and gloves where the smaller boy dropped them. He managed to hang the coat (gloves in the pockets) on its respective hook and place the shoes on the mat just as his mother opened the door and slipped through. She smiles warmly at him before shedding her own heavy frock. He took it from her and hung that up as well. Lucie offered him another smile before heading upstairs to check on her other son.

Lucielle Anne Holmes was a tall, slender woman with pale skin and strawberry blond hair that would flow between her shoulder blades when loose. Her eyes were a light hazel and she had a kind smile. Normally, she could be seen in a three piece suit, hair in a conservative bun, but at home she tended to lounge in a pair of blue yoga pants and an old t-shirt. She worked most of the day - she was gone by the time Mycroft woke up for school and she got home just in time to make dinner by seven in the evening. Tonight, however, Mycroft had started dinner himself. He had found himself bored out of his mind earlier, _he had failed to find a book_, and his school work had been finished for hours.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes Mum?"

Lucie appeared on the stair, hair already flowing freely. "Did you make dinner?"

"For the most part. I just need to heat a vegetable."

"I can do that love. Be a lamb and just set the table."

"Already done."

He recieves a tired smile this time. "Fantastic. Thank you."

* * *

The dinner table was quiet. The salad bowl was passed around, and so was the bread. Food was scooped onto china plates. Cups were filled with water and juice. Sherlock nibbled at his dinner quietly, eager to get back to the chemistry set his father had gotten him for Christmas last year. Lucie sipped her water. Mycroft delved into his thoughts distractedly, stabbing his peas with a vengeance.

"Sherlock dear," Lucie suddenly said, focusing on her son's dark curls. He looked up at her questionably. "How has school been going? It's been a while since I last asked."

"Boring," came the immediate reply. "I know everything we're learning in all my classes with no hope of anything interesting in sight." Sherlock swallowed the rest of his mouthful and pushed his almost empty plate away. "Can I be excused Mummy?"

She pursed her lips and glanced at his plate. "Sorry sweetie, you didn't eat your peas," she murmured, picking through her salad. Mycroft chuckles. "I'll see if I can move you up a year or two at the end of the year Sherlock."

"...Thank you Mummy."

Mycroft chewed slowly, looking back and forth between his brother and mother and the empty seat where his father sits when he's home. "When is Father supposed to be home next?"

His mother shrugged, eyes on her plate. While she wasn't paying attention, he felt something bounce off of his chest. When he looked down to see what it was, something small, round, and green hit him in the forehead. Mycroft lifted his head just in time to see Sherlock pull back his spoon, carefully loaded with a single pea, and aim. This one splats against his nose. He grumbled quietly, preparing himself for a snarky comment or some sort of verbal accostation, but luckily for his brother Lucie saw that one.

"_Sherlock Alastair Holmes_, what have I told you about throwing food at your brother?"

"But I don't like peas!"

A thin brow raised and Mycroft had to hide his smirk behind his napkin. "That's no reason to fling them at your brother. Now off to bed with you." Sherlock happily obliged, rushing to the staircase and taking the steps two at a time. "And lights out when you're in your pyjamas too young man!" she called after him, knowing full well she would be ignored.

When they were done eating, Mycroft cleared the table and set the dishes in the sink. His mother washed while he dried and put them away.

"If you'll excuse me mum, I should get to bed. School tomorrow and the like," he murmured, knowing full well that tomorrow was Sunday. He let Lucie kiss his cheek, and he offered a small peck in return before climbing the stairs. He ambled towards the bathroom to shower and brush his teeth. When he was finally in bed, lying in the dark, the image of curious brown eyes reared its ugly head. Mycroft clenched his eyes shut, pushing aside that and the feeling associated with it. He shoved his damp hair off of his face and rolled onto his side to stare outside his window. A myriad of stars winked back at him, eventually lulling him to sleep.


	2. The Library and a Curious Holmes

_02-07-13: Added and took away what needed it. Didn't change a lot, though. Might come back._

* * *

Sunday was just as uneventful. Mum was working, Sherlock had delved into one of his books for the afternoon, and Mycroft was bored out of his mind. Throughout most of the morning he had found himself staring out the window at all the church-goers, deducing their lives and rationalising how they could believe in such a god. The rest of it he spent pondering whether he could leave Sherlock here and go to the library - he _really_ needed something to read - or just wait until tomorrow. Since the latter was out of the question, he began devising ways he could convince the stubborn git to come along. He came up blank, but decided to ask anyway. Maybe his brother would humor him for once.

"Why the hell would I want to go to the library?" he scoffed from his corner, nose in his "A History of Unsolved Murders IV", legs crossed underneath him. _Or not._

"Haven't I told you to watch your chuffing mouth?" Mycroft asked, rubbing his own mouth in mild irritation. He floundered for a second as he thought of a way to reel the boy in. "If you go, I'll deduce the people there with you. I _might_ even tell you how I do it this time." He waited, the tantalising offer floating over Sherlock's head.

Sherlock stared at it skeptically, lowering his book. His eyes were green that day, bright and interested. He tried to form an unimpressed expression, but Mycroft saw through it. He was eager to go now. "Just let me mark my page, Myc'oft. You get your coat."

* * *

"What about... him?"

Mycroft looked up from the stack of books he was thinking of checking out and glanced over at the man his brother was pointing at. His arm was draped casually over the back of Sherlock's chair. The boy with the curly hair gazed up at him expectantly.

"Married, but he fancies someone else. Two- no, three dogs. One is white, the other two are brown. He and his wife have the brown dogs, and the white one was his son's-"

"What do you mean 'was'?" Sherlock asked innocently enough.

Mycroft felt a small pang from the look in his eyes. The boy knew full well what he meant, but... "His son died in a car crash. Alcohol was involved."

"Oh. Myc'oft, how do you know all that?"

A smile found its way to his lips. "Well, look at him. Tell me what you see." Sherlock looked hard at the man, staring intensely for a full minute before he turned to his brother. His face was the embodiment of self-loathing. He couldn't see a damned thing. "Now come on, Sherlock. Use that marvelous brain of yours for once," he whispered. When his brother came up with nothing, he pointed vaguely to the man's jeans. "What do you see there?"

"...Hair?"

"No, fur. Look hard. What colour?"

"Brown."

"By what?"

"His knees."

"Which means?"

"He has two relatively big dogs." Sherlock smirked briefly.

"Right, now the fur by his ankles-"

"White."

"Right."

Sherlock seemed puzzled. "But how do you know about his son? And how do you know the white one is his?"

"Look at his jumper." Sherlock did. "Do you see the fur there?" A nod. "It's all brown. So he lets the dogs jump on him, perhaps lay against him while he's sitting on the couch watching telly. But what don't you see?"

"... White fur?"

"Excellent. So what does that tell you?"

An attentive gaze met his. "That he doesn't let the white dog jump on him."

"Exactly."

"But-"

"But the bit about his son, I know, let me get there!" Mycroft chuckled quietly. To his surprise, Sherlock waited silently. "What's that book he's reading?"

"'How To Cope With the Death of a Close Family Member'."

"And did you see his phone earlier? Obviously a young man's gadget, not even a year-old model. He wouldn't spend the money on it, he can barely afford a warm enough coat. So it was his son's - kept it because of sentiment. People do that. Plus, while he had it out, you could see the little scuffs around the power connection. Never see a sober man's phone with them, never a drunk's without. But he also doesn't want to be reminded of his dead son, so he ignores his living dog."

Sherlock was stunned, beaming up at his brother. "I'm sorry Myc'oft."

Mycroft frowned. "For what, love?"

"You're not stupid or a pompous clot. You're smart."

"No," he said lightly. "Just observant." He smiled down at his brother warmly, thoroughly touched that Sherlock had said that to him. There was a few moments of comfortable silence before Sherlock gestured to someone else.

"Can you 'observe' anything interesting about him?"

His attention was successfully averted to the other side of the library. In a gap between some bookshelves some metres away, he could make out a tan, unkempt brown hair, and a concentrated scowl hunched over some books and paper. He blinked once, twice. "Are you sure you want him?" he deadpanned.

His little brother nodded in earnest, never saying please, though his eyes conveyed the message appropriately enough. Mycroft did his best not to sigh (he failed) then dove into a simple deduction, using what he already knew, keeping other bits of information for later use. Some he got rid of while he was at it.

"He has a summer job working outside, then a hobby of playing rugby with his mates whenever he can. The problem is, he doesn't have any mates because he goes to a predominately rich school, and while there are other poorer students, he sticks out the most. He actually chooses to be 'friends' with those - excuse me - bastards, but they aren't really his friends. He lives with his aunt, uncle, and four of his cousins. For the most part there, he keeps to himself. But he's making the best of a bad situation, and takes all of it in stride. ...He's a procrastinator as well." Mycroft left out the rumours of the drinking and smoking, even though they're a complete fallacy. Well, perhaps not complete, but he's not a chronic drunk and he isn't smoking five packs of fags every hour.

Sherlock stared at the boy for a good minute before his gaze wandered back to his older brother. "Why don't you be his mate, Myc'oft?" he asked inoffensively enough. Mycroft felt another pang somewhere near his heart as he met his brother's eyes, whose were slowly turning a soft blue like his own under the library lights. He puffed out his cheeks while he searched for an appropriate answer, but there was none to be found. Besides the fact that Mycroft was a young man who was practically raising his brother, keeping up with all of his school work, trying to live up to daddy's high expectations, all while playing mummy. He didn't have the _time_, nor the compulsion to make the effort to befriend others. He much prefered to sit on the outside and deduce. But that was no reason to tell Sherlock anything of the sort. Mycroft was absolutely the last person who wanted Sherlock to grow up to be antisocial, or a sociopath - _even_ a high functioning one - with no friends. Sherlock's outlook on relationships were already... a bit not good. There was no reason to tell him that they were pointless and that everyone ends up hurt in the end to boot. He was still holding out hope that Sherlock would get past all that and find a friend of his own. But Mycroft wasn't going to do the same, he _couldn't_, let alone tell his brother that. He slowly let the air out of his cheeks and looked away, gazing at the books. He wore the silence and the unanswered questions like a blanket, feeling the imploring eyes to his right prodding him with them.

Mycroft never did answer, even as they left the library. The red-head still didn't have a book, but he ignored that particular fact altogether. Instead, he grabbed Sherlock's hand as they crossed the now-busy street and hurried across. To his shock, yet his delight, his brother didn't release his hand when they made it to the other side. Mycroft didn't let go either when they made their way speechlessly down the pavement towards home, their shoes scuffing against the cement. Sherlock was deep in thought. Mycroft was deep in repressing them.

* * *

I'm sorry but the whole conversation between Mycroft and Sherlock at Buckingham Palace keeps sticking in my head...  
_M: "I'll be mother." S: "And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell."_


	3. The Proper Meeting of Greg and Mycroft

_02-07-13: Deleted guest review replies and edited what needed edited. Added a tad as well._

* * *

Mycroft found himself wide awake at five in the bloody morning. He cracked an eye cautiously, knowing by the lack of sun shining through the usually present crack in his curtains that something was off. Of _course_ it was. His alarm, which was set for seven-fifteen, hadn't gone off and read in glowing digits 5:03. He managed to let a groan out into the cold morning air and buried his head under the covers. It didn't work. Forty-five minutes later, he was still awake, not even close to sleeping. A long arm reached over, smacked the alarm off so it wouldn't ring later, and trudged to the bathroom.

Once he brushed his teeth, Mycroft stood in front of the mirror for an extra moment, just staring at his reflection. _I have a new worry line_, he realised. His frown lines were getting more prominent as well. Was he really that stressed? He felt relatively calm and content. Maybe he was wrong... Shaking his head, he continued his routine, going as slow as was possible. Even then, it was only six forty-five by the time he was dressed. He started warming a couple crumpets for breakfast, one for him and one for his brother. He could wake up Sherlock in about a half-hour. Mycroft exhaled sharply and rubbed his face again.

The next thirty minutes were spent pacing about the sitting room and staring out the window, watching the sun rise further in the sky. He gazed on as the star that granted them life first stained the blue-black sky red, then bleached it white. Slowly, light blue started to seep into the canvas, followed by soft streaks of clouds, painted a light pink. Some had orange edges. How a place so hellish and chaotic could be so beautiful, he could hardly fathom.

Right, seven-fifteen. Mycroft climbed the stair, then made a right. He opened the last door on the left and peeked in. All was dark. The little blighter. Still asleep. Stepping softly, avoiding the loud-as-all-hell floorboard next to the chest of drawers, Mycroft arrived at Sherlock's side. He eased open the light-cancelling curtains, just enough to see by, and faced his brother. The older Holmes felt a smile creep over his face.

Sherlock was curled up in an impossibly small ball, his long limbs seemingly entangled in each other, as well as the blankets. His arms were crossed over his legs, which were tucked nearly to his chin. His pale skin shone in the light, smooth as white marble and his curls were even more unruly than normal, sleep-mussed and wild. His soft lips were parted slightly, allowing long, calm breaths to pass through. Mycroft almost hated to wake him, he looked so small and sweet. Nothing like his normal self.

"_Sherlock_," he whispered softly, kneeling next to the bed. "_Love, it's time to wake up_. _You need to be at school in less than an hour_."

Sleepy grey eyes peeked out at him from under dark lashes. "_Myc'oft_," he yawned, not quite coherent at the moment.

"Yes, good morning Sherlock. Up we get, yeah?"

Five minutes of grumbling later, Sherlock rolled out of bed and shambled into the bathroom. Mycroft laid out his brother's school uniform - black dress pants, white shirt, light blazer with the school emblem, and a navy blue jumper - then peeked in. The boy was in the midst of brushing his teeth, murmuring to himself around the white foam and the brush. Another smile before the older Holmes headed downstairs. He munched on his breakfast slowly, then stole a drink of milk straight from the carton before pouring Sherlock his own glass. By the time Sherlock came down fully dressed, ate, pulled on his coat and shoes, and gathered his pack, it was seven-forty-two. Mycroft followed suite, and they left a short tick after.

"Now be good," Mycroft said gently to the boy trotting next to him.

"I know."

"No explosions this month, yeah?"

"Fine."

"Cheers. And please try and make a friend - even two, two would be good. A group of three is normally a good number, not always, but normally-"

"Myco'ft," the boy interrupted in that way children do when they've heard it all before, "I know. But they're so stupid and boring, and just such _pathetic twats_!"

Mycroft ignored the swear this time, knowing he won't be able to prevent his brother from saying it, not by a long shot. "They may be, but at least try-"

"Alright Mycroft, Crucified Christ, I _know_."

"Alright."

When Sherlock made a left and stalked particularly exacerbated down the drive to his school, Mycroft kept walking. It was only a ten minute walk longer, and he enjoyed the scenery and the quiet. He adjusted his own blazer and pack before rubbing his eyes. He could just tell it would be a long day. _Damn Mondays._

* * *

He made it to his first class and to his seat just before the tardy bell. The rest of the day would be just the normal humdrum - _write these notes, take this test, turn in this essay, listen to this lecture, answer these questions, stand up, sit down, speak up, shut up, do this, do that_-

Mycroft hated it. All of it. Of course, there were some classes that were quiet. He had a free period before his science (chemistry, since it was the one class his father _didn't_ choose for him), and he normally spent that finishing school work early or right before it was due, or reading. Seeing as he wasn't interested in homework and he still didn't have a book, Mycroft spent his time staring outside. The bell suddenly rang, jolting him from his thoughts, and he hurried along at a fast walk to the third floor.

"We'll be doing a lab today so choose your partner and get started please. The procedures are on your packets, and answer the questions when you're done," the teacher, Mrs Kitts announced once everyone was seated.

While the rest of the class scurried about finding their best mates and getting to work, Mycroft started right off, putting on a pair of disposable gloves, protective glasses resting on the top of his head while he read through the instructions. He was the only one to work alone. At first, Mrs Kitts tried to include him in a group, but it always ended badly. There were an odd number of students anyways, thirteen in total - it was a small class - so there was no real harm done. Mycroft prefered to do things himself, and the others prefered to leave him be-

"'Scuse me."

Mycroft ignored it at first, no one was possibly talking to him.

"Hey."

That time, a hand waved in front of his eyes. Attention successfully gained, he looked up. "Yeah?"

It was the boy from the library, all chocolate eyes and white teeth. "Do you have any idea what we're doing here?"

Mycroft took a moment to understand that he was talking about the lab. His eyes flickered to his packet, then back up. "Yes?"

"Oh, great." The boy's tan hand massaged the back of his neck. His collar was wrinkled and folded awkwardly, Mycroft noticed. "Because my mate isn't here today, and I have no clue what exactly we're supposed to do."

The red-head sized him up for a few moments, considering his options. "Would you like help?"

A slightly sheepish look appeared, then was pushed aside by a cocky smile. "That would be great, cheers."

Mycroft gestured to the stool beside him and the boy sat down.

"Mycroft right?"

"Mmm," Mycoft grunted as he finished reading. His mind scrabbled for a name, a _first_ name this time. "Ah, Lestrade?" he recieved a nod and kept thinking. It started with_**G**_. _Gerald, Gregson, Gregory- wait _maybe_..._ "Greg?" he asked, watching out of the corner of his eye for a reaction. It was a good one.

Smiling, Greg nodded again. "Yeah."

The next fifteen minutes were spent in mild conversation while they adjusted bunsen burners and measured chemicals. Lestrade chatted amiably about nothing while Mycroft read silently what he could about the other boy's life. He didn't bother digging too deep, that prompts sympathy, which prompts... other things. Nonetheless, something hit him in the face, something that hadn't at the library.

Mother: _gone_, Father: _gone_. Mother cheated on his dad, they both took off. Greg was left to live with his aunt.

Despite himself, Mycroft felt another pang play on his heartstrings, akin to the one his brother forced on him at the library, but... different. Lestrade must have sensed focused eyes on him. He slipped his tongue back in his mouth, as Mycroft licks his chapping lips, and looked up from his conclusions.

"What?" he asked, almost defensively.

Before he could stop himself, Mycroft said it. "I'm sorry."

Lestrade looked throroughly confused. "For what?" A line formed between his brows, and Mycroft focused on it, trying to think of a reply other than _'Because I deduced, without your permission, that your mum and dad left you in the dust like a pet infected with the plague over an affair'_.

Mind racing, he eventually came up with the most rational excuse possible, without provoking the other boy.

"At the library on Saturday. I saw you trying to reach a book, but you couldn't reach it. I didn't help you. I almost did, but I didn't," he mumbled lamely, knowing his explanation was pitiful.

Greg shot him an odd look, then grinned again. "So you're the bloke with the blue eyes. I was wondering..." he said, not necessarily to the boy staring at him. A few silent seconds passed. "It's alright, I ended up with it the next day. I saw you there again, too. And you're brother. He's a cute kid."

Mycroft smirked awkwardly. "Oh, he's 'cute' alright."

"A pain in the arse, yeah?"

"Yeah."

They finished their work in relative silence, with only the occasional question from Greg when he got stuck. Mycroft was (surprisingly) happy to help. Overall, the older Holmes found the experience... _tolerable_.

"So what do you have next?" Lestrade asked as they left, turning in their assignments on the way out.

"Lunch."

"Really? Brill, me too!"

Trying to force something of a smile onto his normally unexpressive face, Mycroft followed the vague gesture the other boy made with his head, almost trotting after him like a lost dog that's just found its master. They stopped by their lockers briefly to put away their books, then headed to the cafeteria. When the boys received their lunches, Greg nods to a table full of boisterous boys.

"You wanna sit with me and my mates?"

_'My mates and I'_, Mycroft thought before shaking his head. He didn't like that particular thought. One almost-stranger was enough, but being immersed in a damn-near swarm of them? He thought not. "No thank you."

Lestrade's friendly smile dimmed slightly, but he shrugged it off. "Alright. See you later then."

Mycroft prodded his lunch distractedly from across the room, watching the table Greg had disappeared in. All in all, there were nine other boys, of which three he recognised, Lestrade included. That left two:

- Tristan Anderson, the older brother of Victor Anderson, one of Sherlock's nemises (as he called him). He was a beady-eyed shit eater, as was Victor, and never hesitated to start trouble. He wasn't stupid, but he wasn't clever either. All in all, he was to be avoided.

- Anton Scott, a tall bloke. There wasn't much that Mycroft knew, or wanted to know about him. He had sharp grey eyes and a crooked smile. He was known to lurk about dark alleys and steal from shops.

There were a couple girls, but the only one of them he recognised was Sandra Donovan, Sally Donovan's older sister, Sally being another git in Sherlock's eyes. All he knew was that Tristan fancied her, and she wanted nothing to do with him. She was there for a bloke he didn't know the name of. He had dark hair and darker eyes and, frankly, reminded the red-head of his father. Cunning, quick, mildly antisocial. But this bloke was... darker. Much darker than he seemed, and Mycroft didn't like that. It made something in the pit of his stomach turn over nervously.

Greg seemed extremely out of place with this lot. Like he didn't really belong. Mycroft was proven right ten-fold when the normally all grins-and-good-spirits boy turned into someone distant and quiet, smiling uncomfortably at random intervals. He was the one to take up the whole table's trays when everyone was finished. He hadn't bothered eating.

Dark brown met inquiring blue across the empty, crowded room, then broke away.

* * *

"Myc'oft," Sherlock addressed his brother when the older Holmes met him on the way home.

Mycroft had a furrow in his brow and a muscle spazzing in his jaw. He didn't respond. They walked in silence - the young man shooting daggers at the pavement, the boy glowing bright and loud.

"I met someone... interesting," the curly-haired boy blurted out, unable to keep it in any longer. They were about two blocks from home.

"Did you?"

"Yeah, he doesn't call me 'freak' and he thinks I'm 'fantastically brilliant'."

Mycroft felt a grin finally creep back. "Oh? Who is it?"

"John Watson."

"Do you think he could be your friend?"

Sherlock shrugged, green-today eyes hopeful, though apprehension hid in them. "What about you, Myc'oft? Did you meet anyone that could be your friend?"

Mycroft thought. Then shrugged. Then pursed his lips. "I don't know, love." _I don't know..._


	4. The Crash and Burn of 'Friendships'

_02-07-13: Deleted guest review replies. Fixed some things. Etc, etc._

* * *

Up until Thursday, Mycroft spent most of his time watching Lestrade from afar. Three major events happened in that time span.

- Tuesday, Lestrade's mate was back and was a complete arsehole

- Wednesday, Sherlock walked home with John Watson

- Thursday afternoon, Lestrade snapped

* * *

Tuesday was a normal day until chemistry. Mycroft was bored, he deduced from a distance, and he worked alone. Somewhere between an average seeming moment and one that was about to turn into a shitstorm for two boys, the red-head caught softer brown eyes. They smirked back at him before a heavy body plopped down next to him. Mycroft would have said Greg looked almost disappointed, but the look was soon replaced, as always, with a grin.

"Hey, where were you yesterday?"

"Bugger off."

"Did I do something wrong?"

"Ask Anderson just what you did. What you are."

Greg stopped, looking like he'd been slapped with a tyre-iron. "What in the name of Christ are you talking about?"

But nothing else was exchanged between the two. Mycroft felt his head tilt to the right, trying to catch those eyes again. He wasn't successful. At lunch, Lestrade never looked up, looking perplexed and somewhat insulted(?), and very much like a kicked puppy.

* * *

Wednesday was a great day, a brilliant day. Well, apart from the happenings at secondary for Mycroft - Lestrade was still in a funk, and didn't seem to want to interact with anyone. (His "mates" didn't seem to be treating him any better either.) When the older Holmes met up with his brother that day, he was surprised by the presence of another boy. He was blond, with deep, rolling blue eyes like the sea, and a shy smile. He was nearly a head shorter than Sherlock, but Mycroft was almost positive that the blond was the older of the two. Sherlock was absolutely beaming.

"Myc'oft!" he said excitedly. "This is John, John Watson. John, this is my git of a brother Myc'oft."

Mycroft extended his hand, and the blond politely shook it, eyes as wide as saucers. "Hello John. I'm Mycroft," he introduced himself, making sure this particular boy could actually say his name properly. He avoided the cliche phrase "I've heard a lot about you" because frankly that was a complete fallacy. Sherlock hadn't said another word about his potential friend since Monday.

"Hello Mycroft," John murmurs quietly. He seemed like a sweet kid, but something was clawing away beneath that innocent, reserved persona. Mycroft could see why Sherlock liked him.

Mycroft allowed the two boys to walk a few metres ahead of him, watching them carefully. Most of the trip was silent, though Sherlock and John would glance over at each other and grin awkwardly every few minutes. When they did speak, his brother spoke animatedly with his hands about several experiments he'd done, or things that Mycroft had taught him that he found interesting. John would nod and smile and say that that was brilliant. Often he asked, "How do you know so much?" and Sherlock would simply smile, blush, and look away for a millisecond. Mycroft smiled. For knowing each other for only a few days, they seemed rather... _close_. No, that wasn't quite the right description. But whatever was, the older Holmes knew the two boys had something special there.

When the trio arrived at the Holmes' house, Mycroft paused. "John, where do you live?"

"About fifteen more minutes down the road," came the promt reply.

Catching Sherlock's eye, he focused again on the blond. "I'll have Sherlock walk you the rest of the way. I'm sure it's lonely all on your own."

Sherlock grinned, following the reluctant figure of his friend. The red-head waved before heading up the drive. He had no worries for his brother, he could easily take care of himself. But John, he had no idea. He figured he's like to know more about this blond boy in the future...

* * *

Thursday was when all the magic happened. Of course, it started out like the previous days - Lestrade was quiet and distant, and so was Mycroft. He was starting to get over the thought of _him_, with his melting brown eyes and bright smile, he was _starting_ to forget, move along. Mycroft sat in his usual corner at lunch, only two tables from Greg's, eyes on the food in front of him, which was absolutely atrocious. He was just contemplating whether or not he should just start bringing his own when a commotion started across the room.

Lestrade was on his feet, chair scraping back against the marble floor in a way that most of the other students flinched. Anderson rose shortly after, unaffected, shit-eating grin plastered to his face. Without thinking about it, Mycroft perched above his seat, waiting, watching carefully. His trained eyes caught the muscles in Greg's arms twitch, his fists clench a little harder. His jaw was set, eyes hard and cold, like frozen mud. Anderson's grin stretched a little further as he opened his ugly maw, egging the other boy on.

Instictively and without second thought, Mycroft flew out of his chair and settled between the two just before Greg readies his hand for contact with the skin on Anderson's face. The Holmes' hands raised, one resting its fingertips lightly on Lestrade's chest, the other was inches from Tristan's. After a second thought, Mycroft lowered his arms slightly, but he was still ready for a hit to fly from somewhere.

Anderson chuckled. "I see you have a boyfriend to fight your battles for you," he sneered. He laughed again when Greg set his jaw further - Mycroft could almost hear the boy's teeth cracking from the strain.

Mycroft didn't say a word, simply grabbed Lestrade by the crook of his arm and dragged him away. The red-head lead his captive to a different table, all the way across the room from those loathsome bastards. He sat Lestrade down, then took the chair beside him. Mycroft didn't bother saying anything, he didn't have anything to say. Disaster was successfully avoided, now was not the time to bring it up again. Now was the time for calming down, for getting over it, or whatever it was normal people did.

Now was the time to wonder why he had thrown himself in between two fight-ready boys like, well, like Greg's (desperate) boyfriend. What motives could he _possibly_ have?

When the lunch bell rang, Lestrade shoved himself to his feet and met Mycroft's eyes. They were dark, and mysterious. He didn't bother reading them. It felt like an invasion of privacy, though he had no idea why he would feel that way. He never had before. As he went to walk away, a hand grabbed at his shoulder. Mycroft turned, stayed silent.

"Thanks."

* * *

Deep in his thoughts, Mycroft almost didn't see someone waiting for him just outside the school doors. At the last moment, he saw it was Greg, sitting casually on the steps, completely in the way with his legs stretched out. When the other boy spotted him, he jumped to his feet, smoothing the back of his trousers, then his shirt, which was dissheveled and partially untucked.

"Hey," he offered awkwardly.

"Hello," Mycroft replied, halting just outside the doors. He waited, wondering just what Lestrade wanted.

Rubbing the back of his neck, imploring brown eyes met his. "Can we talk?"

Mycroft thought of saying yes, but he had his brother to think about. He walked home with Sherlock everyday, and if not he _at least_ told the kid he was going somewhere else. "When?" he asked instead.

"Now?"

Out of the question. He was on the verge of just saying 'no' to those eyes, just for the moment, maybe tomorrow, how hard could that be? Apparently, very hard, because two seconds later, Mycroft murmured, "I need to walk home with my brother first. Make sure he gets there alright." Then at Lestrade's steadily falling face, "But I can meet you later. Outside the library. Dusk. We can talk then, and we can go wherever you like from there, alright?"

After he received a nod, and a hopeful grin, Mycroft went to get Sherlock. John accompanied them again. Mycroft was glad.


	5. The Talk

_02-07-13: Deleted guest review replies. Fixed some more things. Edited a little._

* * *

Mycroft was in the sitting room, having successfully avoided his mum and brother. He had abandoned his school blazer, adopting instead a plain jumper and a warm coat. His scarf was in his pocket. The sun was just beginning to set on the horizon, tearing a long gash through the sky. Red began to stain the blue, which in turn was fading to a deep purple to the west. Clouds were crowding in the middle of the horridly beautiful mess, dark grey with singed edges. He only took a moment longer to admire the sight before slipping silently through the door. Lucie assumed he was in bed early with a headache and Sherlock was sitting placidly in his room, reading. No one would miss him for the next few hours at the least.

The town steadily dimmed as the minutes ticked away, then brightened as the street lamps flickered to life, bathing him in gentle yellow light. As the library came into sight, Mycroft noticed the dripping wound to his left was starting to bruise, dark and fascinating, the crimson congealing. The clouds were bigger now, straight overhead, threatening rain.

A smile greeted him when he arrived at Lestrade's side. A few moments of uncomfortable silence passed before Mycroft spoke up. "Why did you want to talk to me?"

Seemingly considering what he was going to say, the other boy paused, hands fingering the hem of his own jumper. He had no coat. "Can you walk and talk?"

A nod. They began their journey.

* * *

Lestrade took them to two locations, and even though he had been the one who wanted to 'walk and talk' he never said a word until they stopped. The first was in front of the cafe across town.

"So... ah..." he started, then trailed off.

Mycroft didn't attempt to help the conversation, since he had no idea where it was going. Greg seemed, in a word, panicked. His lips would move, as if he wanted to say something, then would stop. His brows furrowed, and his teeth would bite into his lip. Almost helplessly, he turned to the now completely blackened sky, perhaps seeking assistance from the stars that weren't there. He was hiding himself well enough, Mycroft had no idea what he was thinking.

"I wanted to thank you. For stopping me from doing something stupid."

"Chinning Anderson wouldn't have been stupid. You'd have won a medal," the red-head joked dryly. He received a smirk.

"No, really, it's just... everything's been adding up over the past few weeks and I was... frustrated."

Shrugging, Mycroft followed as his companion began walking again, almost as restless as his thoughts. The pavement passed slowly beneath their feet. Thunder rumbled innocently enough from above them, and the two ignored it.

"It seemed to me that your 'frustration' started Tuesday," Mycroft finally replied. They were sitting in the abandoned ampitheatre near the outskirts of the park, backs against the wall. Rain was falling steadily outside, echoing eerily around them.

A bark of a laugh. "Right. Tuesday. You're thinking of chemistry, yeah?" Mycroft nodded.

Holmes waited a few moments before deciding he could properly ask about it, have an actual conversation instead of deducing. "Yeah. What was that all about?"

Lestrade tilted his head back to rest against the curved wall, making a dull 'thud' and exposing his neck. "Right, that-"

"You don't have to _tell_ me," Mycroft insisted, knowing full well he would find out one way or another.

A wry smile. "Nah, it's alright. You're not a complete wanker like the others." Momentarily, Mycroft was flattered. "Mycroft?"

"Hm?"

"I, well, there's _really_ no reason for me to be like this, because really it's fine _all of it is_, but- _Mycroft_?"

"_Yes_?"

"Well. I'm gay." His face seemed to redden, but it was too dark to really tell.

Mycroft took a moment to consider this, mildly shocked that he was being told this sensitive information by someone who was (essentially) a stranger, especially in _this_ town. Greg was just a boy he had happened to see at the library - twice! - who had wanted to be his lab partner the next day, and that he had been eyeing for the past _three_ days like a dog eyes a treasured bone buried in the yard. Or maybe it wasn't that surprising. Lestrade and himself seemed to have something... something akin to John and Sherlock's relationship. Mycroft wouldn't go as far as bringing destiny into the equation, that was _ridiculous_, but _some_ things had to happen for a reason, yeah? But what _was_ it?

"Ah," he finally said. Nothing else seemed a specifically appropriate comment to such information. At an expression from Lestrade, he held up his hands. "Honestly, it's fine, it's just... why tell me?" he asked, needing to know from the boy himself.

Lestrade shrugged. "I told you, you're not a wanker like the rest of them."

"And Anderson?"

"Ah, that," Greg grinned ruefully, "was a whole lot of things that were a bit not good, clashing together at a not-so-good time on a shit day."

"I can relate to that," Mycroft nodded his agreement.

They sat there in comfortable silence for God-knows how long. Mycroft's eyes were closed.

"Mycroft?"

He cracked an eye. "_Mm_?"

"Why did you get between me and Anderson? It was none of your business." It would have sounded offensive, if not for the genuinely perplexed tone Greg used. "...Why did you agree to talk to me?"

Mycroft never had any answers anymore. So he thought, gazing ahead of him, eyes half-lidded. His lips quirked. "Because you're not a complete wanker."

Lestrade chuckled, satisfied with that answer.

Once the freezing rain lessened a satisfying amount, they left, ducking their heads and huddling together against the chill wind. Mycroft made a sound resolution to find this boy a coat. Greg's house was only five minutes away, but his jumper was still soaked through. _'Stupid blighter...he might have found something a bit more waterproof to wear, if nothing else.' _The shorter boy stood at the edge of the pavement in front of his house, shuddering slightly. Mycroft considered handing over his scarf, but didn't see the point in it.

"So I'll be seeing you tomorrow?" Greg's eyes were impossily bright in the lack of light, pupils blown wide from the dimness.

Mycroft nodded. "Yeah." _'See you tomorrow.'_

* * *

He managed to sneak into bed twenty-three minutes after midnight. The house was completely quiet, save his buzzing thoughts and the patter of rain.


	6. The Project

_02-07-13: Deleted guest review replies. Picked through things a bit. The usual._

* * *

The next day after school, Mycroft found himself at the library with Lestrade. The red-head was browsing through the countless mystery novels while Greg lounged at a nearby table, watching the other boy lazily, feet propped on the chair across from him casually. He was wearing one of Mycroft's old jackets that he had found in the back of his closet, nearly forcing it on his - could he call him a friend at this point? - whatever _he_ was, insisting that if Greg didn't take it, life would get very difficult for him. Needless to say, Greg took it.

"Shouldn't we be researching a project topic?" Greg called as quietly as possible.

Mycroft shrugged. The last thing on his mind was doing anything for any sort of project, _especially_ not for science fair. What he, surprisingly, hadn't gotten yet was a book. So much had been going on in the past few days that he almost forgot he needed one like oxygen.

"Hey, can you even hear me over there-" he called again, a little louder this time, then stopped. Mycroft glanced over, wondering why, when he saw a short brunette girl. She was soft spoken, and he had no idea what she was saying, but she _was_ talking to Greg shyly. Pink dusted her face, and she had a ready smile whenever Gred did anything. At the moment he was nodding slowly, grinning politely. She looked familiar, but since last Sunday, he had been frequently forgetting all the names he had previously committed to memory. It frustrated him, but nonetheless, it was happening. Prospective books under his arm, he began to walk towards the pair. The girl smiled, turned, and left before he sat down. When he did, Greg turned to him.

"Find anything interesting?" he teased, raising a brow, eyeing the (impressive) stack of books Mycroft had set down in front of him.

"Who was that?" Mycroft asked, ignoring the other boy.

Lestrade seemed highly uninterested. "Molly Hooper. She's nice."

"Oh," he said, reaching for a book to read when he stopped. "Are you friends?"

A shrug. "Not really. We don't talk much."

Mycroft watched the girl searching through some textbooks across the the library. She was deliberately not looking at them - at Greg - but she would glance out of the corner of her eye when she thought it was safe. When she met Mycroft's eyes, she would look straight down at the book in her hands and turn a deeper shade of pink. "I think she fancies you."

Greg smirked. It seemed slightly strained. "Yeah..."

"So... _ah_-"

His friend cut him off. "She's cute, but like I told you, girls aren't my area." He paused, licking his lower lip in consideration. Mycroft watched him from his peripheral vision, fingers flipping through one of the novels he picked. "Ah... What do _you_ think?"

Mycroft looked back up, observing the girl once more. She had mousy brown hair and a timid smile she used instinctively. She was on the shorter side, and slender. Freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, accompanied by a pale blush. She had dark eyes and long lashes. She _was_ cute. But not his area. He voiced his thoughts to Lestrade, who nodded, then thought deeply about something else.

"So. _Girls_ your area?"

His thoughts came at a stand-still then. Truthfully, he had never really given it any consideration. He had simply been told that males like females and females like males, and had disregarded all of it. Mycroft personally didn't have a preference at the moment - he simply didn't have the experience, therefore not the proper data to give a proper answer. He shrugged.

Lestrade finally seemed to relax at that, practically melting into the hard wooden chair, eyes half-lidded. "We really _should_ find a project, though," he said after twenty minutes of silence. Mycroft didn't hear him. He was buried in one of his books, already far away in the streets of London, tailing Jack the Ripper.

* * *

"Sherlock! I see you didn't burn down the house! Does that mean you're dead?" Mycroft called when he walked through the door, motioning for Lestrade to follow. He receieved a normal swear in response from above them, which also told him that mum wasn't home yet. "Did you walk home with John?"

"Obviously you twat!" the voice huffed loudly through the floor. Mycroft smirked, shrugging off his coat and taking Lestrade's, hanging them up with the others. He slipped off his shoes and Greg did the same. After adjusting his trouser leg, he grabbed his pack and gestured to the stairs. Lestrade followed him cautiously.

Mycroft rapped once on Sherlock's door before opening it and peeking his head in. The boy was crumpled in his normal corner, nose in a book. He didn't even bother looking up. "That's good," the older Holmes remarked. "Are you two still getting along?" He received a distracted nod. "Good. Listen, I have a friend over to work on a project. We'll be in my room if you need anything."

"Wait." Mycroft froze. "_What_ friend?" Accusing eyes bored into him, waiting for an answer. While Myroft's mouth opened, closed, then opened again, Lestrade poked his head in as well.

"This one, apparently."

Judging by his expression, Sherlock recognized him immediately, focusing mainly on the grin, the eyes, the untamed hair. Pale eyes softened, then met blue, holding a silent conversation.

"Ah. Hello." He returned to his book. "Right, carry on."

Mycroft blinked, then backed out, shutting the door. He led Lestrade a tad further down the hall to his room.

Mycroft's room was big. Well, it seemed big. In reality, it was approximately 5x4 metres. Two walls were dominated by tall bookshelves, hosting mainly what they were made for, but there were a few knick-knacks as well. One wall adjacent to the door sheltered a double bed, while the other boasted a desk scattered with various papers and pencils. A laptop perched precariously on one edge. When the older Holmes flipped a switch, a floor lamp illuminated the space gently.

"Shall we get to work?" the red-head asked, throwing his bag next to his bed while he made his way to one of the bookshelves.

* * *

An hour later, Mycroft heard the front door open downstairs. He stared at the closed door - the Holmeses were sticklers for privacy - then glanced at Lestrade. The brunette was face-deep in one of his Psychology books.

"Mycroft!" Lucie finally called from the bottom of the stairs. "Sherlock!"

As was usual, Sherlock didn't respond, forcing Mycroft from his place on the floor. "Yes mum?" he replied, standing in the now open doorway.

"Is your brother in his room?" Lucie arrived at the end of the hall, walking closer on silent bare feet.

"Yes."

"Do you have school work?"

Mycroft felt his lips purse unintentionally. "I have a project for science fair. I'm working on it now. With a friend," he added after a moment. It was only just occurring to him that _maybe_ he should have asked if Greg could come over - he had never had friends over before. He never had any friends _to_ invite over.

Lestrade leaned sideways on the other side of the room to see around Mycroft, revealing himself. "Hullo Mrs Holmes." He offered a mild grin.

Lucie seemed surprised at first, but she quickly recovered. "Oh. Hello..."

"Greg."

"Hello Greg. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Pleasure's all mine."

His mother met Mycroft's eyes in the same way Sherlock's did for a moment. When her son looked away, she offered a placid smile to the boy leaning casually against the bed, then retreated down the hall. Mycroft had a feeling that the matter would be discussed later, when their guest had gone home. For now, he sighed and shut his door tightly.

Lestrade changed his grin slightly, now a cheeky smirk. "You're mum seems nice. A tad shocked to see me, but she was nice about it."

Taking his seat back next to his friend, Mycroft shook his head. "She's not accustomed to visitors."

"Why not?"

Mycroft pushed a few stray hairs out of his eyes. "In case you haven't noticed, my brother and I don't really have any friends. Mum doesn't really either. Neither does our father, but he's never home, so even if he did it wouldn't matter."

Nodding slowly, Greg returned to the book in his lap. "Have we even gotten any real work done?" he asked after a pause

Accustomed to subject change by now, the red-head forced a chuckle out. "No."

"I didn't think so."

"Would you like a break?"

"That would be brilliant."

Mycroft tilted his head, wheels turning in his mind. "Do you want to stay for dinner?"

Lestrade took a moment to think it over. "Well my aunt took my uncle and the kids to her sister's for the weekend... If it won't be a bother."

"I'll tell mum."

The boys traded smiles before Mycroft clambered to his feet for the second time and ambled downstairs.


	7. The Petty Fight

_02-07-13: Picked through, etc, the usual, blah blah blah_

* * *

While Mycroft's mum wasn't entirely _thrilled_ with Greg's unannounced presence, she wasn't against it. She did, however, seem to like the short brunette boy a lot more when he offered to help her and Mycroft with dinner. It was nothing extremely special, just pasta and garlic bread, but Lestrade proved himself apt in the kitchen. Both Holmeses were impressed.

"So, Greg..." Lucie started when they were all seated at the table. Her hazel eyes connected with Lestrade's as he took a polite bite out of his bread. He was seated between Mycroft and Sherlock, and across from her. Mr Holmes' chair remained empty. Mycroft looked between the two, feigning disinterest, though he was _very_ interested in where this was going. "How did you and Mycroft become acquainted?"

Lestrade offered one of his grins, swallowed, and rinsed his mouth with a sip of water. "Um, I first saw him at the library, then we met again properly at school. He's in my chemistry class. We share a lunch period too."

"Mm. How long have you known each other?"

From under the table, Mycroft could see his friend counting with his fingers the exact number of days. "Four- _six_ if you count me seeing him briefly behind a bookshelf last Saturday." Sherlock smirked behind Greg at his brother. Mycroft made a small face back.

Lucie nodded, taking a drink and setting her glass down carefully. "Would you consider yourselves close?"

"_Mother_," Mycroft pleaded, wondering why in the name of holy _hell_ she would bother asking. Lestrade, bless him, shrugged, then nodded.

"Yeah, I would say so. Why?"

A smile spread across her lips like a bruise. "Mycroft hasn't had a friend before. I was just wondering if this would be his last."

Lestrade frowned. "I should hope not." Mycroft felt a tick in his jaw as he watched the things unsaid floating above the other boy's head.

_'Am I not good enough for her?', 'Am I not good enough for him?', 'Is she trying to say we won't last?', 'Well she can just watch and see what happens...'_

Lucie's smile brightened slightly. Apparently his response satisfied her. _"Good,"_ her expression said.

The next five minutes were spent in relative silence. The remainder of dinner involved Mycroft's mother telling Greg practically every embarrassing thing he had ever done in his time on God's green earth, Lestrade smiling - one part politely, two-parts because he was holding in his laughter on behalf of his friend, Sherlock pursing his lips trying not to laugh himself (though _he_ failed), and her eldest son wanting to disappear in a hole. The red-head sat up in his chair, back straight and tense, glancing between his mum and friend as the conversation progressed. Sherlock would make little gestures and chuckle when the timing was appropriate, making him grimace.

"You mean he _really_-?"

"That was Mycroft. He _never_ wanted to wear clothes-"

"Mother."

"-he'd just run about the house and we'd find a trail of trousers and shirts-"

"_Mother_."

"leading wherever he pleased, _normally_ the-"

"_**Mother**_."

To make a long story short, he was more than relieved when Lucie asked him to help clear the table. Greg suggested she have a break, that he and Mycroft could handle cleaning everything up. Sherlock took that as an excuse to leave himself, offering one last jeer to his brother before he bounded upstairs. Taking his mother's glass, he quickly decided that she was definitely _not_ allowed to drink wine should he have Greg - or any other friends - over ever again.

"So, you liked to run about with your-"

"Greg, please."

Lestrade smiled, running warm water into the sink and over the dirty dishes. "Don't worry mate, your secrets are safe with me. I'd never tell another soul." Mycroft was about to thank him, when he interrupted. "It would take all the fun out of it. And then there's the price of blackmail..."

Refraining from saying, _Oh God_, the red-head instead went to work on the dishes. Lestrade leaned against the counter with a towel, watching him with a friendly smile.

"Hey, don't take it like that. If you weren't my friend I wouldn't mess with you." When Mycroft chanced a glance at him, he winked. The Holmes smirked back. "But seriously, mate. It's all fine. Though you will hear all about it from me later." Another wink. Another smirk.

The sun was far past set when Greg finally mentioned, sitting comfortably back in Mycroft's room, on his bed this time, that maybe he should go home. Mycroft, truth be told, was thinking the same thing. But that didn't mean he wanted his friend to leave.

"You sure?"

Greg nodded. "Yeah. No one may be home, but I should get back just in case."

Mycroft sighed. "Alright."

"Well, it's nice to see that you chose today to wear pants, at least Mycroft," Lestrade remarked as they meandered towards the stairs.

"And it's nice to see that you chose today to _keep your_ hands out of _your_ pants, at least Greg," the red-head replied nonchalantly, hand on the railing as he descended the first few steps. When there wasn't a body beside him, he stopped and turned. His friend was standing at the top of the steps, looking like most do when they've been found out, and the outcome isn't going to be a good one.

"Pardon?" he asked, feigning innocence.

Mycroft had the sudden feeling that maybe he had made a misstep. "When you were younger, you tended to keep your hand in your-"

"Alright, yeah, would you quiet-" Lestrade started to interrupt, then interrupted himself. "Who told you?"

"No one told me-"

"Anderson, I'll bet it was Anderson, or maybe that other bastard-" Greg began, his grip tightening, knuckles turning white.

"Greg, honestly, no one told me... it was a simple deduction."

This time the other boy paused, as if he hadn't quite heard right. "What?"

"Um, a simple deduction..." Mycroft started, the fact that the word "um" had never left his lips before never crossing his mind. "It's easy to see by your mannerisms and..." he trailed off. Greg just stood there, frowning, then offered a grin. It looked strained.

"I see," he said, then trotted down the remaining steps. He ignored the coat Mycroft had given him, offered another smile, and stood, hands in his pockets, by the door. Personally, Mycroft didn't quite understand the whole situation, but he felt like a child who said one too many wrong things at the wrong time. That much he did understand. So he quietly said goodbye when Greg murmured "laters", then turned on his heel and headed back towards his room.

* * *

Greg was cold. His hands were cold, his nose was cold, his ears were cold. The late-november wind wrapped around him like a cloak. He had just begun to wish that he had taken his coat, but he forced the thought from his mind. It was too Mycroft for the moment - the way it looked, the feel of the fabric, the smell. The boy wasn't quite sure just where his anger had come from - he had made a sudden leap from embarrassed and red-eared to angry and red-eyed, and even he couldn't trace it to any individual happening. He considered going back, but he had no idea what he would do. So instead the brunette continued to trudge on his way home. However, when he reached the door of his small house, he realised one crucial fact. Well, two. Okay, three.

One, the door was locked and bolted tight.

Two, he didn't have his keys.

Three, the windows were all locked. Even the back door wouldn't give. He noticed with rising panic that there was a shiny new doorknob and steel reinforcements. It made sense, after the near-break-in a few weeks ago, but that meant bad news for Greg. Unless he was breaking a window, or the new door, he was locked out. And his family wouldn't be back until late Sunday night.

Trying the front door again, he felt something clench in his middle. It was solid, barely even jiggled. Just his luck.

After ten minutes of failed problem-solving, Lestrade plopped onto the front stoop and sat there, defeated. No where to go now, he had no close friends and no family for miles. Well, there was Mycroft, but there was no way he was going back now. He had acted like a dick, and he wouldn't make it worse by asking to stay for two nights because he had forgotten his damn keys like an idiot.

Staring at the velvet sky, he noticed that the thick grey clouds had rolled away, leaving nothing but blackness and pinpricks of light flickering above him. There was no moon. He thought suddenly of Molly - she liked the moon.

_Molly_, he chuckled to himself quietly. She was a funny girl. He supposed they used to be friends. Never close, but friends nonetheless. She was the quiet sort that was into all the things you would never expect out of a sweetheart like her. Corpses and murders were her specialty. An anatomy book was always at her side. She was very much into science and biology, and she could never start a conversation. It was just something she wasn't good at. Then again, he supposed Mycroft wasn't necessarily apt at starting _or_ _holding _conversations. He did seem apt at reading people, though, that was obvious enough. But how did he do it? Greg hadn't had the chance to ask the Holmes, since he didn't "deduce" much. At the very least, he didn't aloud.

Ha, here he was, trying to avoid thinking about the red-head, focusing as hard as he could on Molly of all people, yet _voila_! The thought of Mycroft bounced back no matter how much Greg tried to kick it away. He huffed, mildly irritated with himself. As always, he grinned, this time at his shoes. His toes were numb.

"Greg!" a familiar voice called from down the road. His head snapped up immediately - what the hell did they want with him? Lo and behold, it was that damned ginger, waving a coat and a backpack over his head. "What the bloody hell are you doing?" Greg smirked. Mycroft had been watching his language less and less thanks to him. Oops.

"Ah. Hey Mycroft..." he murmured, rising to his feet. "What are you doing here?" He didn't mean for that to come out so harsh, and he bit his tongue for it.

Mycroft looked momentarily like he expected Greg to blow up or hit him, or _something_, when he held out the coat and pack. "Well, you forgot your things. I figured you might need your bag at least for schoolwork. And it's freezing. You need a coat..." Here came the obvious question. "Why are you sitting outside?"

Greg waited a long moment, glaring back at his front door. "...Because I'm locked out..." at a funny look, he added, "Forgot my fucking keys this morning, wasn't thinking right..."

"Tsk, Greg, _all you had to do_ was _come back_. No one will be here until Sunday, right?" Mycroft tutted, and Lestrade hated himself a bit more for earlier. He shrugged, having no reply. Mycroft inspected the front door. "If I would have known, I would have brought my lockpicks..."

This caught the brunette's attention. "Lockpicks?" The other boy looked at him as if he were asking if the earth went around the sun.

"That is what I said, yes?" Greg offered another shrug. Sighing, the red-head gestured to the pavement. "Come on. Let's go."

"Where?"

"Where do you think? I'm not leaving you here until Sunday."

* * *

_02-07-13: Can you tell this could double as a Johnlock story? Not because of John and Sherlock, but because I'm noticing Mycroft and Lestrade are startlingly similar to how I write Sherlock and John. Joy. Oh well._


	8. The Night They Slept Together

_03-07-13: More editing! Yay. Joy. Celebrations._

* * *

Sherlock thought he heard a door easing open. The sound was soon followed by soft footsteps (two sets) on the stairs, and a quiet explanation of "_When mum is in her study, mum doesn't exist_," from his brother. A second whisper followed, but was soon shushed. The dark-haired boy understood the urge to be quiet. Their mother was usually soft-spoken and gentle - but _God forbid_ you disturb her when she retreats to "her domain".

Pressing up against his door, Sherlock waited patiently until he heard his brother usher the other voice into his room. "_Myc'oft_," he whispered, opening the door a crack. His brother halted immediately, foot halfway into his own door.

"_What_?" he asked just as quietly. Lestrade peeked out at the boy, brows knitted.

Sherlock opened the door further. "_I thought he went home earlier_."

Mycroft shrugged. "_His house was locked. Couldn't get in_."

"_So call a locksmith. Or pick the lock_."

Another shrug. "_He can stay for tonight _at least."

Sherlock must have made a face, since Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. A pleading expression hid in the blue, so the boy simply pursed his lips, then retreated into his room. He heard a pause, then the two older boys whispering, followed by soft footsteps and a click as the door was shut.

What had gotten into him lately? It wasn't really a huge change, but noticable enough. Since Sunday - no, perhaps Saturday - Mycroft had been... different.

But in a good way.

For the most part.

Lestrade seemed to be the common denominator here, and Sherlock found himself liking his brother's friend more and more.

* * *

Mycroft felt a wave of relief wash over him as he shut his door. Behind him, all he heard was silence. It was decently dark - Mycroft owned heavy curtains, which kept the light of street lamps at bay, unless they were cracked, which was usually the case - and the red-head found it hard to see the wood in front of his nose. Behind him he heard shuffling feet and quiet breathing. He inhaled himself, then in one fluid movement glided across the room to his desk and switched on the lamp.

That was better. Shadows still clung to crevices and the far corners of the room, but they could see at least. Mycroft offered a smile, which was returned by Greg.

"So," the brunet asked. "Why so quiet?"

Sighing, Mycroft sat on the edge of his bed. Lestrade followed. "Mum doesn't like to be bothered in her study."

"Why not?"

A shrug.

Lestrade, being smarter than the average bloke, dropped the subject. "So."

"So," the red-head replied.

After a pause, Greg's lips quirked and his brow raised.

"What?" Mycroft asked, confused.

"Why were you staring at me?" the other boy asked, chuckling.

"I wasn't staring!" But despite the statement, he felt his face turning red. He thought back. Christ, he had been staring. _Unintentionally_, but Greg was perfectly right.

"Yeah you were."

Christ, he knew it too. _Smug bastard._

He swiped a hand through his hair, glancing at his clock, and Jesus, it was nearly eleven. Well, actually, that's not bad. Not for a weekend anyway.

...

As is turned out, eleven was _not_ late for a weekend. Sitting side by side on Mycroft's bed, then with Lestrade lying casually on the floor with his calves and feet on the mattress, then with Mycroft on his stomach, peering over the bed at his friend, followed by Greg curling up onto his side - they talked.

Or stared at each other sleepily until four in the morning.

As the warnings of dawn started to appear on the horizon through the recently cracked curtains, Mycroft sat up and yawned. "We should probably _actually_ get some sleep."

Lestrade agreed, he had suitcases lurking under his eyes.

After some searching on tip-toe and silent feet, the red-head managed to scrape together a few extra blankets and a pillow. After fifteen minutes of arguing, Lestrade, in a rather large stage-whisper, spat out that it was Mycroft's home, and _Mycroft's_ bed, and that _he_ would sleep on the floor. Mycroft, always with a decent amount of sass, mentioned that it was _his_ floor, and that Lestrade was _his_ guest.

Greg replied by ripping the pillow and a blanket from his friend's pale hands and all but fell on the floor. There was an audible smack. Wincing slightly, Mycroft for the most part ignored him, _let him be stubborn_, he thought, as he changed behind his friend's back. He threw a pair of pyjama bottoms over that brown mess of hair, only to have them thrown back at him good-naturedly. With a content sigh, he climbed into bed.

His eyes weren't even closed when Lestrade grumbled, just short of a chuckle, "_Mycroft_."

"_What_?"

"_You're floor is _fucking hard. _And _cold."

"_I told you to take the _damn bed."

There was no reply.

Until nearly an hour later.

"_Mycroft_," came the sleepy chuckle, trying to tease in its effort to find sleep, forcing the Holmes to sit up, drag his tired-as-hell arse out of bed and kneel beside his friend.

"_Get up_," he coaxed. Greg got up. And with a decent amount of herding, he was pushed into Mycroft's considerably softer bed. But Lestrade would have none of it. He sat straight up, rubbing a chocolate eye, smearing it.

"_'Syour bed_."

Defeated, and with no other options, Mycroft pushed his friend to the side against the wall, and eased himself down on the very edge of the bed.

"_Better_?" he asked, pulling the comforter up over his chest. He received a sleepy nod, followed by Lestrade turning his back on him. Satisfyed, the red-head turned his own back to his friend and closed his eyes.

An hour later there was no whispered complaint. Only soft breathing and gentle smiles.


	9. The After-Morning

_03-07-13: MORE EDITING. -GROANS-_

* * *

It was nearly noon. Swinging his feet, scuffing his bare toes against the tile, Sherlock read, running his fingertips distractedly over the smooth white table cloth while his mother bustled away in the background. This was one of the few days she had off.

"Sherlock?"

He felt his ear twitch remotely, though his brain didn't quite register the fact that she was calling him.

"Sherlock," the voice called again, with a little more force behind it, seeking his immediate attention.

This time his brain got the hint, blurring the words in front of his eyes and making him look up. "Yes mummy?" he replied.

"Is Mycroft up yet?"

It took a few moments for the boy to piece together several bits of information. The silence from upstairs, the lack of noise in any other part of the house, the fact that he hadn't seen his brother since late last night... "I don't think so."

Lucie made a face, much akin to one Mycroft might make when he's mildly annoyed, before she went towards the stairs. "There's no need for him to sleep in this late."

Sherlock, being a good little brother, and despite his normal prat-ness, stopped her. There was a good chance Greg was still up there. Sure, Lucie may have gotten over the fact that Lestrade had been at her house with her sons with no permission for a few hours, but overnight? Surely that would cross some sort of line. "It's alright, Mum, I'll get him."

He felt the familiar graze of a suspicious look, then the light brush of a dismissive hand. "Thank you love."

As he climbed the stairs, Sherlock pondered over what would need done if Greg was actually in the house. Of course, he knew better, there was no way Mycroft was letting his friend go home in the dead of night to a locked house. Over his dead body, perhaps, but nothing less. Greg would be there. But then what?

He was proven right as he eased open his brother's door. As he expected, there were two boys, one brunet, one ginger.

What he was not expecting was the tangle of limbs he found in his brother's bed.

Mycroft was lying placidly enough on his pillow. Lestrade's head was on his chest, face smooshed slightly, and rising and falling with his brother's breaths. A tan arm was curled around a pale shoulder, while a slender arm rested protectively over Greg's back. Their legs were intertwined with each other and the sheets - oh what a mess. But Sherlock couldn't help but smirk. After a few minutes he knocked once, only once, but insistently and loudly.

The sharp rap roused his brother, he was never quite the heavy sleeper. Greg proved to be the opposite - he didn't even flinch. Blue eyes meandered across the room to meet his brother's, widening only slightly before he realised he was safe.

"Morning Sherlock," he rasped, voice clogged with sleep. He glanced down at the figure in his arms, still half-asleep. He smiled.

"You mean 'good afternoon'."

Mycroft's head snapped up. "What?"

"It's well past noon, Myc'oft. Mum is starting to worry. I suggest you get up and hide Greg."

Now it seemed to hit him, and for a moment the ginger seemed to struggle between wanting to shove his friend away, or let him sleep. He opted for the first.

"Get up you git," he murmured, pushing Greg to the other half of the bed. Greg opened his eyes lazily and yawned.

"Morning already?" he asked cheekily. Sherlock chuckled. Mycroft groaned.


	10. The Night John and Greg Came Over

_03-07-13: Yay editing! -vomits with disgust even though I can't really complain-_

* * *

"Mum, I'm going out," Mycroft said about an hour later, roughly fifteen minutes after Greg had been unceremoniously shoved out of their door. He was dressed in a burgundy jumper over a white dress shirt and plain trousers. He was slipping on his shoes when he received a distracted hum somewhere from the other end of the house. Mycroft proceeded to thank his lucky stars that none of them had been caught and pulled on his coat, only to have Sherlock suddenly appear in front of him.

Despite himself, he jumped. Sherlock didn't react, but a certain smug aura seemed to surround him.

"Oh, Sherlock," he said, then dropped his tone just above a whisper. "Thanks by the way for this morning." Sherlock shrugged, and Mycroft smiled. Sure, his brother could be a little shit, but he knew when to be a loyal sibling. "Um, Lestrade and I are going to meander around town. Do you want to come along?"

At Sherlock's skeptical expression (why would he want to hang around with his older brother and his friend?), he added, "We could see if his mum could spare John for today…"

That seemed to do the trick.

After Sherlock confirmed that it was fine for both of them to leave for the remainder of the day (it was going on two in the afternoon), the little one pulled on a decently warm coat and followed his brother out onto the pavement.

Just down the street in the late November air was Greg, waiting patiently in the coat Mycroft gave him. He grinned nice and big when he caught sight of the Holmeses, walking up to meet them. "I see you brought Sherlock," he said, smiling at the boy. Sherlock smiled politely back before Mycroft asked Greg if it was alright for Sherlock and John to tag along. Greg, of course, said it was fine, and off they went.

* * *

"So if you wouldn't mind Mrs Watson," Mycroft said politely. Sherlock was standing beside him, eyes unintentionally wide and pleading, gazing expectantly up at the woman.

She was short, only about a head taller than Sherlock, give or take, and a tad plump, but not overly so. The laugh lines and crows feet were prominent on her face, making her seem extremely friendly, though there was some tiredness and stress there as well. Her eyes were brown, unlike John's, Sherlock noticed, but her curled hair was the same blond. All in all, she seemed to be a very amicable woman, which she proved with her next sentence.

"Oh please, you can call me Molly dear," she said with a smile, glancing at Greg's repressed chuckle, his thoughts flying to a much different Molly. Sherlock was about to open his mouth to ask about John again, the impatient bastard as always, when she cast that smile down on him. "You must be Sherlock. Oh, the things I've heard about you…"

"All good I hope?" Mycroft asked as Sherlock swallowed nervously, obviously wondering what John had been saying.

Molly raised a brow. "If you consider 'the most brilliant bloke', 'genius', and 'a bit callous, but really nice on the inside' good, then yes. I certainly do." The same smile curled her lips as she turned. "John! Visitor!"

It was only a few seconds before the blond rounded the corner, face curious at first, then immediately brightening. "Oh, hello Sherlock!"

Sherlock smirked shyly back. "Hello." His eyes seemed to focus first on John's face, run down his beige jumper and jeans, and then slide back up again.

Mycroft couldn't help but grin, he had actually never seen his brother like this. "So, then it's alright?"

Molly looked to her son. "John, Sherlock wants to know if you want to spend the day with him." At this, Sherlock blushed a deep pink and John nodded vigorously.

"Yes please Mum," he said.

"Then it's all fine."

Sherlock seemed to relax finally, and waited patiently for John to find some shoes and something warm to wear over his cable-knit jumper. As the blond walked out of the door, Molly kissed his head, wished him a good time, and told him to be home before it was too late. John smirked and waved as the group came to the pavement and started walking towards town.

"Your mum's really nice," Sherlock mentioned as they followed Mycroft and Greg, who were talking about nothing - well, _Greg _was talking, Mycroft was listening intently.

John shrugged, eyes on the ground in front of him, counting cracks. "Yeah," he smiled, looking just like Molly Watson.

* * *

After about an hour of meandering, the seventeen and eighteen year olds getting along with the seven and eight year olds surprisingly well, Lestrade suggested lunch at the café they passed a little while back. They all agreed, and turned 'round.

Mycroft got a coffee, as did John ("don't tell my mum, okay?"). Sherlock gazed skeptically at the menu, and eventually decided on tea, as did Greg. They all ordered various sweets. Lestrade said that counted as lunch.

When they had finished everything but their drinks, they heard an exasperated "Oh no" from across the room. They all turned, cups in hand, to see a woman just walking in, staring in disbelief at her wrist.

John, ever the little gentleman, called over to her. "Ma'am, is everything alright?"

She glanced up, green eyes concerned. "Oh, everything's fine, I've just lost my bracelet… I know I put it on this morning…" She was extremely flustered, and Mycroft set down his coffee and walked over.

"Did it have a clasp? Could it have broken? Maybe it fell off."

She tsked. "Maybe. It was always loose. It's not valuable, really. But it was my great-grandmother's…"

Mycroft frowned. "When did you last notice it was on?"

The woman thought for a second. By this time, Lestrade, John, and Sherlock were all gathered in a half circle around Mycroft and the woman, watching intently. Sherlock seemed especially keen, wondering if his brother was going to use his powers for good. "I believe before that young man bumped me before I walked in."

Sherlock glanced up to see Mycroft suppressing a groan, though the red-head decided to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. "Oh?"

"Yes, he accidentally bumped into me, grabbed my hand to steady me and then apologized before leaving. He seemed very sweet."

Oh no, this woman was just as stupid as he thought, and the young man was just as much of a thief. "I'll look for it, Miss. You get yourself a drink. I'll be right back."

Five minutes later, Mycroft was back with the bracelet. The woman, called Catherine, thanked him to no end. When he finally pried himself away to sit down by Lestrade, they all looked at him expectantly. John seemed especially interested.

He sighed, then proceeded to tell them all about it.

"Obviously the man bumped into her to steal the bracelet, which looked to be of considerable value - only it wasn't. It wasn't hard to find him either. He couldn't have been more than a two minute walk away, since he wouldn't be in much of a hurry. He's stolen before, and he's an expert at looking casual by now. Too casual actually…"

Sherlock listened intently to his brother's reasonings, and noted, with much annoyance, John's awed expression as Mycroft continued talking.

Mycroft noticed and quickly shut his mouth, saying that anyone could have done it.

It only made Sherlock more annoyed, but he let it pass.

"Your brother's really smart," John mentioned on the way back to Sherlock's house.

Sherlock shrugged, still bothered, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. This didn't go unnoticed by his friend, who bumped into him casually. Sherlock smirked briefly, then sighed, looking (and sounding) exactly like Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

After some discussions, and asking John whether or not he was going to church in the morning - for the Holmeses certainly weren't, and neither was Lestrade - _and _some begging on Sherlock and Mycroft's part, it was decided, by Lucie at least, that her boys could have an overnight with their friends. Mycroft figured that then was a good time to tell her about Greg's situation. Lucie agreed it would do no good to send him home to a locked house (and after a few moment's thought, she looked suspiciously at her son, obviously wondering where Greg had stayed the previous night. Mycroft swallowed, but she said nothing more about the subject). John she consented to, because the way she saw it it wasn't fair to say yes to one son, and no to the other.

Sherlock and John, then, were sent to the blond's house to ask permission from Mrs Watson, and in the case she would say yes, gather clothes. John said he owned a few board games they could play, and he could bring them if Sherlock wanted. Sherlock, generally, didn't play games, but resigned to John's enthusiasm.

It didn't take them obscenely long to arrive at the quaint little house. John knocked twice to announce his arrival back home, gesturing for Sherlock to follow him inside, which he did.

"Mum!" John called. He found her in the kitchen, washing dishes, humming to herself.

"Yes love?"

"Can I stay the night at Sherlock's?"

There were a few moments of consideration. Molly stepped away from the sink, shaking her hands to get rid of the soap bubbles. She rubbed her knuckles as she thought. "I don't see a problem with it. Just make sure you ask your father."

John nodded, thanked her, and headed towards a hallway. Sherlock followed close behind, offering a hello and his own thanks to Mrs Watson. She offered him a smile in return.

"Dad?" John asked, peering into a dark doorway at the end of the hall. A grunt came from the inside. "I'm staying at a friend's tonight. Is that okay?" Another tired grunt. It didn't sound negative, so John took it as a yes. "Thanks Dad, I'll see you tomorrow."

John smirked at Sherlock, and opened another door, revealing his room.

John's room was small, with a twin bed in one corner, a chest of drawers in the other, and a small book shelf that held mainly games or small model cars. There were a few assorted army men as well.

Sherlock waited patiently while John grabbed a pair of pyjamas and a pair of jeans, as well as another jumper. After going back and forth for five minutes, the blond decided that Cluedo would be the best game to play. In another five minutes, John (and Sherlock) received a hug from Molly Watson, who sent them on their way. A half an hour later - they took their time - and they were back at Sherlock's.

"Well, let's see what fun we can have, shall we?" Greg chuckled when they arrived through the front door.

* * *

First and foremost, snacks were made and hauled up to Mycroft's room, his having more floor space than Sherlock's. Next, Greg suggested that they play charades. John heartily agreed, while the Holmeses were more reluctant. They couldn't remember ever playing charades, though they knew the general concept.

Just to be evil, Greg decided that two older boys being on one team wouldn't be fair. John, deciding to let out his inner little shit, agreed. And so began the battle.

"What the hell are you even doing?" Greg asked despite himself, clutching his sides. They were about twenty minutes in, and John and Lestrade were ahead.

Mycroft frowned. "Something he'll be able to guess." He proceeded to walk about like a Neanderthal, making this horrible scrunched-up face that made him seem rat-like…

"Anderson!" Sherlock suddenly shouted.

"It only took you ten minutes," Mycroft joked as he sat down next to his brother. "_Christ_."

After much excitement - and a lot of beginners luck - the Holmeses won. Greg and John gave them credit, and congratulated them with enthusiasm.

Next, John brought up Cluedo.

And that was where the war began.

* * *

"I say it was… Reverend Green, in the library, with the spanner," Mycroft finally guessed, to everyone's disappointment.

John opened the envelope. He was right.

Sherlock granted him that one.

The next game, it was neck and neck between Greg and Mycroft, but once again, Mycroft arrived at the cellar first.

"Miss Scarlett, billiard room, candlestick."

"Right again."

Sherlock would have quit the next game, but Mycroft was wrong on one tiny detail. John gladly corrected him.

"Sorry Mycroft, it was Mrs White in the study with the _pipe."_

The next one, however, Mycroft hit it on the nose again, before anyone even had a clue.

"Mrs White again, kitchen, revolver."

Sherlock sighed heavily at this. "Impossible!"

Mycroft raised a brow. "Oh really. Are we getting frustrated?"

With a pout, Sherlock turned away. "No. It's just impossible for her to have done it."

"How so?"

How so indeed, Greg and John were curious as well.

"Mrs White is the old maid, yes?" They nodded. "Then how did she fire that revolver if she's so old? And when she had the pipe earlier, she can't possibly have the force needed to-"

"Sherlock, it's just a game," Mycroft chuckled. "But if it wasn't Mrs White, who did it?"

Sherlock frowned heavily now. "Obviously it was Dr Black."

John spoke up now. "Um, Sherlock, it's impossible for the victim to have done it."

"Why?"

"Because it's in the rules…"

"Well then the rules are wrong!"

Needless to say, Cluedo was put away.

* * *

_A/N: I'm probably going to come up with posting days for my things, so look out for that whenever I come up with it._


	11. The Moment They Finally Kiss

_03-07-13: Editing. May come back later and rewrite completely. Or something... (It's one in the morning -groans-)_

* * *

The next hour or two were spent by Greg talking to Mycroft and Sherlock and John more or less listening. Soon, though, Sherlock decided that he had had enough socialization for the night. He bade his brother good night, as well as Greg, and beckoned John to him.

John seemed reluctant - he had come to like Greg's anecdotes and sense of humour - but nonetheless followed his friend to his room.

There was no talk of sleep yet, and Sherlock sat down silently on his bed, staring at John. Honestly, John felt a little flustered at the attention. "What?" he asked.

Sherlock blinked. "What?" he asked too. Apparently he hadn't noticed. John ignored it and sat down, smirking quietly to himself. He'd never known anyone quite like his Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock suddenly laid back, resting his head somewhere near John's thigh. John smiled.

* * *

Greg and Mycroft watched the door for a little bit after the younger boys left.

"They seem a little…"

"Yeah."

Greg chuckled. Mycroft looked over at him, befuddled. The brunet shrugged. "A bit like us, I suppose." Mycroft smiled.

"Yeah."

"So now what?"

Mycroft shrugged. "John left Cluedo here…" he said, grinning.

"You can't _possibly_ want to keep playing that damn game," Lestrade groaned. "It's just because you're good at it!" Another shrug and a smug smile.

"So?"

"_So_," Greg began, poking Mycroft just below his chest. He flinched, forcing the brunet to pause. He did it again. And again. And one more time for good measure. Every time, Mycroft flinched and wriggled and squirmed. Lestrade was beginning to get an evil look in his eye. "Are you ticklish?" he asked, sliding his fingers down Mycroft's side. He tried to lean away in vain.

"No!" he denied with vehemence.

"You're a dirty liar," Greg grinned, going next for his middle, then the insides of his thighs. Mycroft immediately fell backwards, making an audible smack on the hardwood floor, and let out a high-pitched yelp.

* * *

Lucie wasn't entirely concerned when she heard the bang and the yelp - she assumed Sherlock and John were messing around like small ones often do - and therefore didn't rush. It didn't seem like anyone was hurt, but just to be safe, she set her book down beside her and walked upstairs.

It wasn't the younger boys, as it turned out. Sherlock was too busy leafing through a book Mycroft had given him the previous week, talking through it with John, who looked fascinated. Neither one looked up from their places on the bed. She shut the door with a silent click.

When she came to Mycroft's room, she discovered the actual culprits. And was taken rather by surprise.

Greg sat on Mycroft's hips, fingers nearly under the red-head's shirt, tickling along his ribs. Mycroft was trying, he really was trying to get Greg back, but his friend had grown up at the bottom of the food chain, and was immune for the most part, save the occasional twitch. Both were laughing. Lucie was not as amused.

"I'd expect this from the younger ones, Mycroft. Not two nearly grown men."

Mycroft jumped, and made like he was going to slither out from under Lestrade. After a moment, though, he must have tossed the thought aside. Greg stayed planted where he was. "Oh. Hullo, Mum." She raised her brow at the unfamiliar greeting.

"_Hello_," she stressed. But she wasn't without good humour. "Don't break anything," she warned, then turned on her heel. Mycroft considered it a blessing, but only had a moment before he was assaulted again.

* * *

A half-hour later, Greg was laying on Mycroft's chest. The red-head had given up begging for mercy and was now just trying to ignore the feel of Greg's fingers on his abdomen and sides and thighs. Greg chuckled.

"It's not often _I_ get to tickle someone. Normally I'm bombarded my small ones, or older cousins if it's a particularly unlucky time of year."

Mycroft tried to force a smile, but his face hurt.

Settling comfortably, with his elbows on either side of his friend's shoulders, Greg rested his tired head on Mycroft's. He yawned. Mycroft let out a bemused huff.

"There's no getting off of me, is there?" he asked, not at all bothered by the notion. He received a shake of the head in return, followed by an adamant 'nope'.

Somehow, after Mycroft got his breath back and his sides and face stopped being so sore, Lestrade brought up a previously dropped subject.

"So. You never did tell me what your division was," he said, staring at Mycroft with those soft brown eyes, noses touching slightly.

Mycroft frowned. "Excuse me?"

A grin. "You never told me if you're gay or straight. Both, neither, _what_?"

After a long pause, Mycroft frowned, unsure of what to say. "W- why would you like to know?"

"Well," Greg said casually, putting some space between their faces, only about an inch. "I'd like to know what to tell my dick. I mean, I'm not saying I'd fuck you into the floor right now, but knowing whether or not there's a possibility later on would be nice."

Mycroft felt his face flush a deep red at the images that flashed behind his eyes._ Sweat, heat, clashing mouths, passionate cries-_

He coughed. "Are you always so straight-forward?"

"Not really, no."

Mycroft must have pursed his lips in an embarrassed pout, because all the sudden Greg grinned nice and big, muttering something about 'you're kinda cute when you glower like that' and chuckling.

After a sigh, he responded with another question. "So… that's an option?"

Lestrade tilted his head. "Would you like it to be?"

Honestly, Mycroft still had no idea. Not just because of his non-existent experience in this particular field, but in _every field_ in general. Really though, he was simply confused by the fact he was even considering a relationship with his friend of about a week. Hadn't he been telling himself just a few days ago he had no desire to be involved with this sort of thing? It always ended badly. But… Greg was different. Wasn't he?

"I don't know."

Now Greg started to get a flush running across his nose and darkening his cheeks. "Would you like to find out?"

"How?"

A pause. "Well, uh. Can I- Do you mind if I-? Um…" He licked his lips and Mycroft got the hint.

With a slight nod and a barely there look of anticipation, Greg slowly tilted his head, not wanting to spook his friend - because he _was _new to this, that he could tell - and gently touched their lips.

It was sweet and chaste, and only lasted for a few moments, but it left Mycroft light-headed and hot and breathless all the same. This was an entirely new sensation. And you know what?

He wanted more of it.


	12. The Perks of Snogging

_(For maths, do you guys even have calculus at their age? Ugh, research required, bear with me, I'm just trying to work with areas I'm familiar with… Screw it, just go with it. It's late and I wanna post before Friday.)_

_Edit: I failed. It's officially Friday as of now. Oops._

_Also, my apologies. This is going to be a short chapter because I'm free this weekend and I'm dead-set on posting another chapter before Monday, so… enjoy!_

* * *

Time seemed to stand still. Mycroft was on his back, Greg casually draped over him, smoothing back his red hair. There were a few intakes of breath and slow exhales before Mycroft grabbed his friend by the collar and pulled him back down.

It was then that Mycroft decided something. Kissing Greg was enigmatic, breathtaking, ethereal. Kissing Greg was like coming home after months of being gone and having his little brother jump to throw his little arms around his neck, kissing Greg was like settling into a warm bed with the brunette right next to him, kissing Greg was like walking into a dusty library full of potential and different worlds he had never known (and finding something new).

Why the _hell _had he never spoken to this boy before?

Only God knows how much time passed before chaste kissing turned into desperate snogging. Mycroft didn't even care anymore. His inhibitions were at the lowest they had probably ever been.

It was liberating.

* * *

As time moved on and snogging became more and more frequent, they found other perks as well. Greg, for one, found that his school work was greatly improving.

Okay, really it was his relationship with Mycroft (yes,_ wow_, relationship) and the ginger's willingness to tutor him in whatever subject Greg didn't understand, no matter how menial it seemed to him. If Greg thought it important enough to learn, Mycroft thought it important enough to teach. Truthfully, the only problem was Mycroft's habit of using hellishly long, complicated words and unnecessary technical definitions, and Greg's lack of memory and attention span.

So yes. Snogging. Snogging, believe it or not, became the solution.

"Greg, _Greg_, _**Gregory Lestrade**_ are you even paying attention?"

Lestrade casually looked up from Mycroft's mouth, raising his eyebrows in the stereotypical 'sorry _what_?' expression, eyes half-lidded.

Mycroft rolled his own eyes haughtily in the way Greg secretly loved. "I've been talking for ten minutes and you haven't heard a_ word,_ have you?"

"Uh… no. What exactly have you been saying?"

"You wanted me to explain your calculus homework?"

Greg nodded. "Right. But what were you rambling about?"

There was a haughty sigh to match his haughty look from a few moments ago. "I wasn't rambling, I was simply explaining that a conditional convergence describes a series that converges but does not converge absolutely. So a convergent series will become a divergent series if all negative terms are made positive-"

"Yeah I'm sorry, slower and simpler," the brunette interrupted smugly, pulling Mycroft towards him, kissing him brazenly. It didn't take long before Mycroft became a hot mess like usual, simplifying his speech (as much as he was able), trying as hard as he could to resist. Greg loved it.

"Conditional convergence… it's a convergent series that becomes a divergent series when all the negatives become positives…" He let out a small moan. "But it doesn't converge absolutely… which- which is when a series that converges - or becomes finite, as in it has an end- _Mmm-_ when all terms are replaced by their absolute values. An absolute value-_ Christ_- being a number's distance from zero, so it's always positive-" he finished somewhat breathlessly.

Greg held onto every word, helped along by his (as of late) boyfriend's squirming, the noises he made, the flush of his face as the brunette stole glances from under his lashes.

_Beautiful._

So, in short, Greg gained knowledge from his relationship. Mycroft gained freedom.

But there was so much more as well. And that, well, that was the best part.

* * *

_Oh yes, it's short, but you have to admit. It's a bit more fun to be fed these little bits rather than have a huge, mind-numbing piece of text that takes you three hours to read, right?_

_Plus, come on, I'm helping you with your calculus._

_Stay tuned my lovlies! I really am aiming for Sunday for another chapter (since I'll be bored out of my mind)._


	13. The First and Last Matchmaking Holmes

_We've established that I'm a lazy procrastinating liar, right? Good. I think Mich reviewed at some point, and I had a really nice review from a few days ago telling me to write more, and I'll get back to you at some point, but it's two-thirty a.m. almost and I'm tired. Here's a ridiculous chapter. Have fun with it. Laters. *yawn*_

* * *

All was quiet, save for the dull hum floating from down the hall, but it was to be expected. Mycroft had Greg pinned against a few unused lockers, savoring the taste of the flesh over the brunette's jugular. The pulse fluttered light and quick, along with his breathing. Mycroft smiled. He was getting good at this. For a virgin.

"Mycroft- _Christ_-"

Mycroft's smile grew to a grin as he nipped the growing purple mark playfully.

"Mycroft- shit, what if someone _sees_?"

A shrug from the Holmes. "Does it really matter that much?"

Greg shot him a look. Mycroft regarded him evenly. Their eyes battled like that for a long moment, but Greg was no Holmes - his brown eyes were soft and unaccustomed to the piercing (blue) glare all of the Holmeses had acquired. It didn't take long for him to crumble.

"Now now darling, don't pout," the Holmes crooned teasingly.

"I'm not… pouting…"

"Mhm," the red head murmured, eyeing the triangle of skin between Greg's neck and shoulder hungrily. After swiping his tongue over the area, he focused on the task of leaving a a second respectable purple mark there. Lestrade couldn't help but roll his eyes. He had just opened his mouth to convey one of the array of snaky comments he had stored in his arsenal when a voice made itself heard behind them.

"Oh, well _hello_ boys."

Mycroft heard the soft click as Greg's mouth snapped shut, felt him jump from under his lips and fingers. Blue eyes suddenly grew dull and cold as he turned, holding his boyfriend's hand behind his back. Lestrade clasped his fingers gently. Mycroft knew Greg would rather keep his sexuality a secret - his reasons were his own. Mycroft didn't question, and respected his wishes as best he could, as he would try and do now. In a rather impeccable rendition of his father's indifferent, yet commanding tone, he addressed their little voyeur.

"Miss Adler, hello. Shouldn't you be at lunch?"

A smile curved her red lips. "What does that say about you and your boyfriend?"

Greg tensed behind him. Mycroft felt a particularly defensive corner of his brain protest, then submit. "Touché," he allowed.

"You know, I took you for more of the asexual type, Mr Holmes. I didn't know you were gay… though Greg I've had theories about for a while…" she murmured the last bit, and Mycroft was rather sure Greg didn't catch it. Good.

"It's a recent development," he admitted. "I didn't take you for gay either, Miss, but if you don't mind me saying, now that I look closer and pay attention, it is _quite_ obvious."

Irene, bless her, took it all in stride, only raising a brow. "Oh?"

A shit-eating grin only a Holmes could pull off. "Yes. Would you like me to explain?"

"Oh, go ahead. _Deduce me_, ice man."

Mycroft's turn to raise a brow. His skills weren't really that well known, were they? Well, he _did_ have a tendency to show off when the opportunity presented itself. But where did 'ice man' come from? Whatever. She wanted a deduction, and she was going to get one.

"Would you like me to start with the way you hang over men, or your perfume? Or maybe your heels you somehow manage to wear when dress code strictly prohibits any more than a one inch heel? The cant of your hips? Lipstick? The attitude?"

"You seem to have mentioned everything that labels a woman as straight."

"Ah, no. Many gay women do those exact same things. But for different reasons. You however, you try too hard to seem like the typical girl who gets around but never actually puts out. Or does she? No one ever knows. But I do."

"Mr Holmes, I don't-"

"Understand? Right, I'll put it into words you can comprehend. You flutter around every boy's shoulder here to fool everyone. 'Irene, a lesbian? Oh no, she's probably slept with every boy in school, do you see the way she shows herself off?' The heels the outfit, the makeup all an act. But, the attitude and the _perfume_, that's the red flag."

"What about it?" Greg spoke up quietly. "It smells nice. Flowery."

"Ah, but haven't you noticed? She always smells of cologne. She never wears perfume, except for every third Wednesday after lunch. I assume it's because she has a girlfriend."

Ms Adler pursed her lips. "And my attitude?"

"Simple. You seem feminine, but there's that underlying bad-ass, domineering tone. That could just be you (which it is I guess) but added with everything all together, it spells gay."

There was a pause and Mycroft was feeling rather proud of himself. "Oh. And I see the way you look at Miss Hooper when you think no one's paying attention." This granted him a jolt from both Greg and Irene.

"I- well- You're right. I am gay."

"Why hide it then?"

"I have my reasons Mycroft Holmes. I expect you can appreciate that considering your boyfriend's own views."

She had him there. He nodded his understanding. The two boys watched as she sauntered down the hall, gathering the remains of her dignity on her way.

"Oh, and Mr Holmes."

"Yes?"

There was a pause as Irene allowed herself a twitch of the lips. "I spend every third Wednesday with Molly. She tutors me in anatomy and physics."

"I'm glad you two spend time together."

She nodded, went to walk away again, turned around. "Mycroft?"

"Irene."

"I don't have a girlfriend."

"Apologies. I hope that changes."

There was a real, genuine smile that time. And, Irene Adler disappeared around the corner.

Greg and Mycroft stood there for a few minutes longer, waiting for the lunch period to end, fingers entwined. Each was deep in thought about a different subject.

"Molly always told us she worked during lunch, and her free period every third Wednesday."

"Mm? Oh yes. Yes she did," Mycroft murmured distractedly.

"Mycroft, why would she lie? I mean, if they're not dating..?"

A shrug. "Maybe she has a crush."

"But you said she had a crush on me. And so does half the school. It's a bit obvious."

Mycroft's brain whirred as a few pieces clicked into place. "Love is a complicated thing Greg Lestrade. I'm not the one to simplify a thing like that." Though, in his mind, Mycroft was considering becoming the first and last matchmaking Holmes.

* * *

Molly found herself in a spectacular pickle. Her particular corner of the small library was empty. The clacking of computer keys and the shushing of pages being turned were the only sounds, save her heart drumming in her ears. What was the matter with her?

Of course, the answer was Irene Adler.

No, no, not Irene. Molly was her own problem. There were a lot of reasons for this, like how she was a good Christian/Catholic girl whose mum and dad both had important jobs that were based on reputation, how her dad was openly homophobic, and how she had fancied Greg Lestrade since she had laid eyes on him back in primary school. But that was changing.

Her harsh sigh cut through the still air. She pushed her hair out of her face and went to stand, but she didn't have the strength to put forth the effort. This was getting troublesome, her little affair. At first she had pushed it away with reason and threats of what if her parents found out, what if _Irene _found out, but that didn't work for long. Though thank _God_ she was already awkward and backwards, since that covered up her growing inability to speak and act like a normal human being around Irene. Damn, why had she agreed to tutor her! Originally, she had jumped at the opportunity to get close (not to mention Molly was simply one of those girls ho helped anyone as much as she could and then some). She was starting to regret it now.

She needed help, someone to talk to. _But who? _Who would want to listen to sweet Molly whine about her bi-curious-leaning-towards-gay problems?

Maybe… _no_.

_Maybe Mycroft?_

* * *

"You know we should tell her. So you aren't leading her on."

"Love, you keep bringing up how you think she has it bad for Irene. I think we're fine."

"Greg-"

"_Mycroft!_"a voice called from behind them.

The boys halted and turned around. Greg released his hand and the red head adjusted his backpack somewhat irritably in response.

Molly trotted to a stop in front of them, panting slightly from her jog to catch up. "Um, Mycroft, do you have a moment?"

The Holmes and Lestrade exchanged glances. "How long is a moment?" When Molly took too long considering, Mycroft took the initiative. "Well, tonight Greg and I were going to work on science fair. And Sherlock is having trouble with a few of his 'boring' classes. I may have to help him. Do you need to speak alone, or…?"

A perturbed expression washed over Molly's face. "Uh, never mind, can I just speak with you at lunch tomorrow?"

The red head noticed Greg giving him a long look. "Of course. Whatever you need Molly."

She actually smiled then. "Great! Thanks, see you then!"

"Right," he said as she hurried away, "see you."

"Well then," Greg murmured, brow furrowed. He took Mycroft's hand in his and led them onwards. They weren't two steps before someone else decided they needed Lestrade's boyfriend, and he sighed impatiently.

"Mycroft!"

"Irene!" he replied for the second time that day. "Let me guess, you need my ever-flowing fountain of wisdom and advice too, don't you?"

She looked like she wanted to say something smart, then reconsidered. "Can we speak sometime?"

"Well it can't be tomorrow at lunch, I'm speaking to Molly then. Christ, I may need to keep a planner, who's next, Anderson? Greg, can I write you down for an appointment?"

"Alright you prat," Greg said, smacking his shoulder. Irene rolled her eyes.

"Right, is this private or can Greg listen in, because we have a science fair project that needs to be at least started. I figure we better do well, since that's what got this whole relationship underway anyways."

Irene pulled her long hair behind her shoulders. "I don't see any harm in Greg hearing more about what he's already been made aware of… did you say you were speaking to Molly tomorrow?"

"Yes, don't be tedious," Mycroft said, getting a bit tired of this already. Where was the resolve he had an hour ago? "Now come along, we need to get my brother. And I assume he'll have John."

"Ah." They were well on their way before Irene had another question. "Who's John?"

Mycroft sighed. It was going to be a long rest of the week.

* * *

"Who's this?" Sherlock asked as soon as he clapped eyes on Irene.

"A friend," Mycroft groaned, rubbing his face. There are reasons he doesn't socialise. "Irene, this is my brother Sherlock, don't mind him if he can't pronounce my name properly, I find it endearing. The blond next to him trying to melt into the pavement is John, he's shy, obviously. Sherlock, John, this is Irene Adler, and I'm apparently going to be her counselor, and if I'm especially (un)lucky, maybe I'll upgrade to _relationship_ counselor someday."

Sherlock tilted his head, studying this new woman. After a bit, he refocused his attention on his brother. "There's no need for so much sass, Myc'oft, have you had a long day?"

_Christ, is he being nice, or is that a thinly veiled insult? _Either way, it was surprising. "Long day, love. Long day. You have no idea. So how are you? John?"

Mycroft walked with the two younger boys ahead, leaving Greg and Irene to follow behind. He didn't even hear Irene whisper into Greg's ear.

"_Sherlock is so cute - '_Myc'oft_?' Adorable." _

Greg couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or not, but he smiled either way.

_Christ_, this would be a long rest of the week. Now if only he could get through today.

* * *

An hour later, everyone was settled where they should be, fed with after school snacks washed down with grape juice from the back of the fridge that needed to be drunk. Mycroft used that to hide the fact that he took a nice swig of wine. Now _that _was better.

"All right Irene, what's the problem?" he asked distractedly as he gathered his books. Greg was on his laptop, bringing up their bookmarked pages on the subject. They had their work cut out for them. They hadn't touched any of this since Greg first came to his house _weeks_ ago.

"Well, I wanted to talk to you about Molly-"

"Obviously. That's obvious, too obvious, what _about_ Molly? The fact that she fancies you, or the fact that you're terrified to get close to anyone, but _damn_, you could throw everything away for her if she'd catch you?"

"Mycroft, you're being an ass." Lestrade piped up from his desk.

"I never claimed to be anything but, darling."

Irene made herself at home and sat on the bed. "Wait, she fancies me?"

"Jesus, does no one pay attention to anything but me? Yes. She fancies you."

"Mycroft, you didn't have a clue until I brought up the fact that she lied about her study dates for no reason," Lestrade shot behind him.

Mycroft allowed that one. "Regardless. Yes. Your feelings are mutual. Bad news, she's conflicted, and not _just_ because she questions your own feelings, but a whole array of complications."

"Like what?"

"Irene, I deduce things, I'm not an actual psychic. I have no idea. I reckon I'll find out tomorrow when we have a chat."

"Oh. Well… would you put in a good word for me?"

"Of course, what else is Mycroft Holmes, matchmaker, good for?"

"Mycroft, you're not a matchmaker."

"Lestrade, I'm not afraid to snog you with a woman _in _the room and two young children in the _next_ room with the possibility my mum will walk in on us at _any _moment."

* * *

And his mother did walk in. At approximately eleven at night. Mycroft and Lestrade had their legs entwined on the floor, looking over papers and notes. Irene was reading an old novel Mycroft hadn't touched in years, lying on her back, still on his bed. Luci wasn't even surprised anymore.

"Hello Greg."

"Hello mum," he replied.

"Another one Mycroft?" she sighed, tired after a long day.

He didn't even look up, simply pointed in Irene's general direction. "That's Irene."

"I see."

"I'm having relationship trouble," Irene offered nonchalantly, focused entirely on her page.

Luci nodded slowly. "Hello…Mycroft, dinner-"

"We were fed. There's a plate for you in the oven."

"Dishes-"

"John and I washed them."

"So John-"

"I called Molly Watson. She said it was fine for him to stay. They're in bed."

"And Greg-?"

"My aunt is alright with it."

Luci paused, glancing at Irene. "And-"

Irene, still not looking up, answered, "my parents are out of town," tone bored.

"I see…" Mycroft glanced up now, seeing the dark circles under his mother's eyes.

"Mother, everything is taken care of. Relax and go to bed."

"Right. Thank you Mycroft. Good night, lots of love. Sleep sweet."

"Lots of love, you too," all three replied.

With one more look at the trio, Luci shut the door. After a sigh, she allowed herself a smile. Her son finally had a few friends. And if he didn't grow up to be as reclusive as his father, she could put up with the impromptu overnights. So long as they behaved.


	14. The Chat With Molly Hooper

_Fucking shit, I did it again, didn't I? I took a long-as-hell hiatus when I had been doing so good... apologies. Though it will probably happen again. Well, enjoy anyways..._

* * *

Mycroft did not have a pleasant awakening.

When he woke up for the first time, his eyelids fluttered open to reveal complete darkness. Irene was in his bed, curled up at the end he could only assume, though her arm was hanging over the edge. Her fingertips brushed against Greg's shin, who was sprawled partially on Mycroft. Christ, that boy couldn't keep to himself. Mycroft himself was numb all over from the dead weight on top of him, but he was also pleasantly warm. He shifted an inch to his left, hiding himself even more under his bed and closed his eyes, planning to sleep for another hour or two. He was in the middle of a nice doze when his alarm went off, splitting through the silence, startling everyone. Mycroft jumped, cracking his skull on the underside of his bed, and again on his wood floor.

"Son of a bitch!" he swore under his breath eyes clenched shut. Irene winced above him, sitting bolt upright. Greg blinked blearily, the initial shock over after a few moments.

"You alright love?" he asked, brow furrowing in concern.

Mycroft hissed something incomprehensible before burying his face in Greg's shoulder. Greg kissed the growing bump tenderly, rubbing his boyfriend's arm. Mycroft laid there for a bit longer before getting up. He proceeded to unplug the wretched device that woke them, then ripped open his curtains that for once hadn't been cracked before he fell asleep. The light blinded them all for a moment before Mycroft went about his routine.

"Irene, if you need to freshen up you can use Mum's shower in her room and I can throw your clothes in the washer. You have enough time."

She blinked and nodded, not wasting any time in stripping down to her knickers. She tossed her uniform as she passed, and Mycroft caught it dutifully.

"Towels are in the closet to your left!"

"Cheers."

* * *

As it turned out, three teenagers trying to get ready all at once could be very noisy. John awoke with a groan, arm draped loosely over the body of his friend next to him. He smiled, then sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Sherlock would be asleep for at least a half an hour more - the bastard could sleep through anything.

Mycroft was in the bathroom, smoothing down the stray hairs that were just a tad too unruly for his liking. Greg was behind him, arms around the red head's waist. John said his good mornings and announced his need to empty his bladder, leaning against the doorframe. Sherlock's brother smiled, said he needed to check the dryer anyways (after a quick 'morning' and 'sorry we woke you') , and walked out, Greg trailing behind.

John went about his business, washing his hands afterwards (no, this _wasn't_ because of the nice-smelling hand soap. Nope). He proceeded to brush his teeth and comb his own hair.

By the time he looked presentable and all that was left was a change of clothes, Sherlock stumbled down the hall and into the bathroom, looking a mess. There were circles under his eyes that would fade with the day, his hair was a disheveled mess that was sticking every-which-way on one side, and his skin was still rosy and marked with lines from his pillow. When Sherlock Holmes slept, he slept _hard_.

"Good morning Sleeping Beauty," John grinned. Sherlock blinked up at him, too groggy to retaliate. Instead, he rubbed his eye and made a feeble attempt at swatting the back of John's head. Instead, his fingertips trailed along the blond's neck softly, sending a shiver down his back. Sherlock went about his business, and John soon left him to it, rubbing his neck while a frown grew on his face.

* * *

Much to all of the boys' surprise, Irene was the first one ready, being the only female in the house. She simply laughed as Greg pulled on his trousers on the way downstairs, shirt half-buttoned, hair still sticking up everywhere. Mycroft had tried to fix it earlier, but the brunet would have none of it. Mycroft wasn't much better, dressed all except for his school shirt - in fact, after he had thrown of his night shirt he had managed to slip on last night before they all crashed, he had remained rather shirtless. John was trying to find Sherlock's own trousers, while Sherlock searched for John's missing shoe. As Irene started breakfast, Mycroft tried to shoo her away.

"Oh, do put a shirt on Mr Holmes. The neighbors have a very nice view from here and sorry to say, but you're a tad doughy," she said, poking his stomach playfully. He rubbed the spot, mildly irritated before trudging upstairs.

Twenty-three minutes later, all the boys were dressed and fed, and Irene was drinking coffee and rinsing dishes. Sherlock had taken to calling her "Mother Dearest" while Mycroft almost spit into his milk.

Five more minutes and they all rushed out the door, backpacks in hand, pulling on coats, everyone yelling. Mycroft had misjudged the time (of course, blame everything on _him_) and they were all going to be late if they dawdled.

* * *

After the kids ran up the drive to their school, Mycroft, Lestrade, and Irene bolted down the street. Of course, it turned into a race. Irene soon took the lead, with Greg in a close second. Mycroft lagged behind, but a small smile curved his lips and his eyes brightened noticeably. As soon as he saw the two in front of him slow down in the slightest, he sped ahead, using his long legs as an advantage. For being "doughy" he was rather fast. Curses were shouted behind him, but he only laughed and ran faster.

By the time Irene and Greg caught up, he was on the top step, triumphant, arms in the air. All three burst into laughter that made their lungs feel like bursting, and rushed inside to their classes before the tardy bell.

* * *

Sherlock was bored. Sherlock was more than bored. He was… _was_ there a more intense word than just _bored_? Certainly there was. Wasn't there? While he should have been concentrating on mathematics and the importance of the order of operations, he pondered over it. He didn't think there was, at least, there wasn't a word currently in his mental dictionary that fit quite right. Across the room, John was staring at him. The blond knew his friend wasn't absorbing any of this, he could tell from the faraway look in his eyes, how his long fingers drummed away on the desk. Sherlock noticed him noticing. He offered a smile. John smirked back before returning his attention to his worksheet. Sherlock hadn't even noticed they had gotten one.

He contemplated doing it, but it was beneath him. He would do it later. Maybe. Instead, Sherlock started doodling on the corner of the page. Doodling turned into notes on the people around him, the little things they did while they were working.

Anderson gnawed on his pencil eraser, Sally tapped her foot, Molly (not to be confused with Molly _Hooper _or Molly _Watson_) bit her lip almost raw. Sean, Evan, and Martin all made these annoying little sounds that no one paid attention to but him. After scanning his entire class, Sherlock's eyes finally landed on John. John. John didn't really have any annoying habits while he worked. The blond mainly sat there, staring at the page, working everything out in his head. Occasionally, his tongue would stick out a tad in concentration. Sherlock smiled.

He loved his friend.

He really did.

* * *

Molly was waiting for him as soon as the bell rang. Mycroft honestly had no idea where she came from, but once he was out the door, she was there.

"Hello Mycroft," she said, following him and Greg on the way to their lockers.

"Hello Molly," they both replied.

"So… are we still on for lunch?"

Mycroft nodded, focusing on his combination. Beside him, Greg shoved his own things into his locker before shooting him a smirk. Then he was gone, no doubt to find Irene and a place in the cafeteria to sit and wait and watch.

…

"So what did you want to talk about?" Mycroft asked, ignoring the tray of food in front of him, focusing on Molly's brown eyes instead.

She picked at the mess in front of her, uninterested in it, but unwilling to meet his gaze. "I… I just… I need to talk to you about something."

He prevented himself from saying 'obviously' but just barely. Forcing his eyes not to roll was another feat to behold. "Alright, about what?"

"I need to talk to you about Irene."

_Finally_. "What about Irene?"

Molly paused for more than a minute here, apparently thinking about how she could word it. While he waited, Mycroft glanced about the lunch room. After a good once-over, he noticed Greg and Irene three tables over. _Smooth._

"_I think I fancy her," _Molly finally spat out in a whisper, face flushing bright red.

Mycroft raised a brow, allowing himself a small twitch of the lips. "Obviously."

If it was at all possible, the shade of red deepened further. Now it spread to the girl's ears. "Obviously?"

"Quite."

"B- but that's what you told me two weeks ago when I told you I've fancied Greg since we were little! If it's 'obvious' then everyone knows!"

Mycroft raised his hand, silencing her and ceasing her panic. "Not so quite. Only if they're as observant as I am. And, well, Greg when the chance presents itself," he added last second. The Holmes believed in giving credit where credit was due.

The girl sagged with relief. "Okay. _So…_ what should I do?"

Mycroft looked honestly perplexed. "About what?"

An incredulous look was shot his way. "About Irene."

"Ah, right. Forgot you weren't aware, though I have no idea how one could be so ignorant. Oh don't give me that look, it's obvious." Right. So he wasn't the nicest match-maker. So what? "She's a damn near genius, Molly, probably about as smart as I am, and I don't say that lightly. So why would she ask for tutoring from you?" He paused for effect and leaned closer. Molly subconsciously did the same. "Because she_ likes_ you. She wants to be close to you."

"_Wha_-"

"Molly, don't be tedious. It's obvious. And, if you don't believe the list of one-hundred reasons I have, if you'd kindly look to your left, you'll see Ms Adler's beautiful face full of anticipation and hope staring right at you with more longing than I can possibly fathom, even though I'm dating Greg and understand the emotion to a point."

Molly listened to him, blinked, then looked away. He could tell she believed him - at least a bit - now.

"Oh. Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"So what do I do…?"

He abstained from rolling his eyes. "You ask her out."

"Yes, but-?"

"Yes, I know your family won't approve. But what they don't know won't hurt them. When do you think the next crush who happens to fancy you back will come along?"

Finally, Molly seemed to have some resolve. "Alright," she said, standing. She turned to walk to Greg and Irene's table, when she stopped suddenly and looked Mycroft in the eye. "What was that about you and Greg?"

Mycroft rubbed the back of his neck. "Ah, right. _That_..."


	15. The Surprise?

_A/N: And hello! I'm back! After many many moons, my laptop has been rid of all of the malicious software that prevented me from doing anything actually productive with this story. It has given me time, however, to re-read everything. And it is so. Bad. Basically, what I'm telling you, is that after I post this chapter, I'm going to go back to all the previous ones and basically rewrite them (including this one). Because it needs done. They need to be longer, more indepth. They need to look like someone other then a mentally challenged cat wrote them. Or something._

_But anyway, this should be the part where I apologise for the delay. So my apologies. Here you are. Then get ready to see some changes!_

* * *

As it turned out, Molly really wasn't as angry as she led Mycroft to believe. Which he should have seen coming, I mean Molly, angry? Perhaps in an alternate world...

After about two seconds, she broke out in a wide grin, saying how overjoyed she was that everything seemed to be working out so far. Good old Molly. Always a great friend.

While she was chittering about something or other, Mycroft motioned to Greg and Irene to come over. Greg had this dopey grin on his face, while Irene was trying to stay composed. It was rather pleasant, just watching three people interact so positively - even better that Mycroft was able to sit there and enjoy it, be a part of it without having to try too hard. Amazing.

It only took him a few moments of keen listening to realise that none of them really had anything of import to do that day, besides the usual workload, and after a second of contemplation, he asked if anyone would like to come over. The trio agreed, making him smile. He hoped his mother wouldn't skin him alive later, though she didn't seem to have a real problem with him bringing actual friends home instead of science experiments. Maybe his luck would hold out.

With the thought of the day ahead on his mind, Mycroft successfully avoided learning anything worthwhile in all of his afternoon classes, and he was sure he was going to suffer for it later. Senior stats and honours calculus would most likely be the worst. However, he did share stats with Irene, and he knew she took calculus. No, check that, she and Greg were too much alike, she could never focus on studying with him with other people around. He didn't even entertain the idea of studying with Greg. He was enough of a handful as it was when it came to education, and their studying methods were not meant for other eyes. That left him Molly. Yes, Molly could and would help him. He kept that in mind as he went to his last class and promptly ignored everything anyone said.

It came as a relief when the final bell rang. Mycroft had to keep himself from running down the hall, and even more difficult was the urge not to bowl people over. He was the first out of class, rushing to his locker to collect his books in record time, and was outside waiting for his friends for a good five minutes before they joined him. This would be the start of a daily ritual.

When Sherlock joined them, he didn't seem surprised by his brother's "posse", but he was surprised when Mycroft made a rather lewd joke, and everyone laughed. He sent Molly a searching glance, though not a disapproving one. Greg he even smirked at, but there was something in his eyes. It didn't take long for Mycroft to find out why.

"John?"

Sherlock responded with an inaudible grunt and a shrug. Mycroft hoped nothing was seriously wrong and that John was simply busy this afternoon.

When they reached the Holmes', Sherlock immediately dropped his things and made a beeline for his room. Greg and Irene made themselves at home - the bottomless pit made his way to the fridge, and Irene lounged across the loveseat comfortably, almost like a cat - leaving Molly to stand beside Mycroft in wonder while he picked up his brother's things. She looked around in wonder at the large house.

"Your home is lovely," she said in awe at the chandelier above them.

Mycroft gave her some sort of grunt in response and pulled off his shoes. He glanced at the staircase before deciding that Sherlock would most likely mope around for the rest of the day.

Thus being the case, it was a quiet evening. Molly quizzed him while he made dinner, as he thought she would, while Irene and Greg watched from the table. Mycroft noticed with equal amounts of amusement and annoyance that Greg's eyes were narrowed slightly. What was he thinking, that Mycroft was going to ravish the poor girl as soon as Greg looked away? On the flip-side, it was kind of endearing...

By the time their mother got home, the four teens and Sherlock had long finished dinner and washed their plates. Mycroft and the trio were lounging in his room, chatting like normal people their age. Sherlock was across the hall, not likely asleep, more likely still awake, even more so, he was still moping about. One thing about his brother, once something becomes a habitual thing, it can't change.

Mycroft listened to his mother's weary footsteps first pause outside of Sherlock's door, then his own. There was a short warning rap before Luci stuck her head in. Greg waved with a "Hi mom," while Molly offered a smile. Irene smirked in acknowledgement. His mother nodded, then addressed Mycroft.

"Goodnight Mycroft. I hope you get some sleep," she said, glancing around the room again with a tired smile. "I may have a surprise for you tomorrow."

Mycroft tilted his head._ Surprise?_

He thought on it while his mother said goodnights to the others. But, when they were alone, and three sets of eyes were on him expectantly, he still wasn't any closer to figuring out what this "surprise" was.

* * *

_Ooooh, what is it?_


End file.
